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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 

FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1/83         BERKELEY,  CA  94720 

®$ 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/aftericebergswitOOnoblrich 


m.m'.n 


of  Saroni' Major  &}&im  449Sroidwa 


AFTER    ICEBERGS 


WITH  A  PAINTER 


SUMMER  VOYAGE  TO  LABRADOR  AND  AROUND 
NEWFOUNDLAND. 


BY 


KEV.    LOUIS    L.    NOBLE, 

AUTUOE    OF    TUB     "HFE     OP    COLE,"     "  POEMS,"     ETC. 


NEW  YORK : 
APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

443   &   445    BKOADWAY. 

LONDON:    16    LITTLE  BRITAIN. 

M.DCCC.LXI. 


Enteeed,  according  to  Act  of  Congi-css,  In  the  year  1861, 

By   D.    APPLETON  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  tho  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 


E.     U.    3? -A.  IL.  M:  E  R, 


THE  SCULPTOE, 


THIS    VOLUME    IS    RESPECTFULLY 


Jubitatetr. 


r  /I26 


PREFACE 


The  title-page  alone  would  serve  for  a  preface 
to  the  present  volume.  It  is  the  record  of  a 
voyage,  during  the  summer  of  1859,  in  company 
with  a  distinguished  landscape  painter,  along  the 
north-eastern  coast  of  British  America,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  studying  and  sketching  icebergs. 

It  was  thought,  at  first,  that  the  shores  in  the 
neighborhood  of  St.  Johns,  Newfoundland,  upon 
which  many  bergs  are  often  floated  in,  would  afford 
all  facilities.  It  was  found,  however,  upon  ex- 
periment, that  they  did  not.  Icebergs  were  too 
few  for  the  requisite  variety ;  too  scattered  to  be 
reached  conveniently ;  and  too  distant  to  be  mi- 
nutely examined  from  land.  One  needed  to  be  in 
the   midst   of  them,    where    he   could    command 


SRIITSS 


VI  PEEFACE. 

views,  near  or  remote,  of  all  sides  of  them,  at  all 
hours  of  the  day  and  evening. 

For  that  purpose  a  small  vessel  was  hired  to 
take  us  to  Labrador.  Favoring  circumstances  di- 
rected us  to  Battle  Harbor,  near  Cape  St.  Louis,  in 
the  waters  of  which  icebergs,  and  all  facilities  for 
sketching  them,  abounded. 

To  diversify  the  journey,  we  returned  through 
the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  coasting  the  west  of 
Newfoundland,  and  the  shores  of  Cape  Breton,  and 
concluding  with  a  ride  across  the  island,  and 
through  Nova  Scotia  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy. 

If  the  writer  has  succeeded  in  picturing  to  his 
reader,  with  some  freshness,  w^hat  he  saw  and  felt, 
then  will  the  purpose  of  the  book,  made  from  notes 
pencilled  rapidly,  have  been  accomplished. 

L.  L.  K 

Hudson,  New  Jersey, 
March,  1861. 


COl^TEITTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Cool  and  Novel, 


CHAPTEE  IL 
On  the  Edge  of  the  Gulf-Stream,     . 


The  Painter's  Story, 

Halifax, 

The  Merlin, 


CHAPTER  VI. 
Sydney. — Cape  Breton. — ^The  Ocean, 


CHAPTER  III. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


CHAPTER  V. 


The  first  Icebergs, 


Newfoundland. — St.  Johns,  . 


CHAPTER  VIL 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


•  • 


PAOB 
1 


•  • 


8 


16 


.      19 


23 


.      27 


Vm  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  IX.  PAGE 

An  English  Inn. — The  Governor  and  Bishop. — Signal  Hill,       .  .      33 

CHAPTEE  X. 
The  Ride  to  Torbay.— The  lost  Sailor.— The  Newfoundland  Dog,   .  38 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Torbay. — Flakes  and  Fish-houses. — The  Fishing-barge. — The  Cliffs. — 
The  Retreat  to  Flat  Rock  Harbor. — ^William  Waterman,  the  fisher- 
man, ........       41 

CHAPTER  XII. 

The  Whales. — The  Iceberg. — The  Return,  and  the  Ride  to  St.  Johns 

by  Starlight,      .......  52 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
St.  Mary's  Church.~The  Ride  to  Petty  Harbor,  .  .  .      .60 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Petty  Harbor. — The   Mountain   River. — Cod-liver  Oil. — The  Evening 

Ride  back  to  St.  Johns,  .  .  .  .  .  65 

CHAPTER  XV. 
The  Church  Ship. — The  Hero  of  Ears. — The  Missionary  of  Labrador,      '71 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
Sunday  Evening  at  the  Bishop's.— The  Rev.  Mr.  Wood's  Talk  about 
Icebergs,  ......••  '74 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
Our  Vessel  for  Labrador.— Wreck  of  the  Argc— The  Fisherman's 
Funeral,      .  ,  .  .♦  .  .  .  .16 


CONTENTS. 
CHAPTER  XVIII. 


Our  First  Evening  at  Sea, 


PACE 

80 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
Icebergs  of  the  Open  Sea. — The  Ocean  Chase. — The  Retreat  to  Cat 

Harbor,       ........       82 

^  CHAPTER  XX. 

Cat  Harbor. — ^Evening  Service  in  Church. — The  Fisherman's  Fire. — ^The 

Return  at  Midnight,       .  .  .  .  .  .  89 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
ifter  Icebergs  again. — ^Among  the  Sea-Fowl,   .  .  .  .93 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
Notre  Dame  Bay. — ^Fogo  Island  and  the  Three  Hundred  Isles. — ^The 
Freedom  of  the  Seas. — The  Iceberg  of  the  Sunset,  and  the  Flight 
into  Twillingate,  ......  96 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  Sunday  in  Twillingate. — ^The  Morning  of  the  Fourth, 


.     103 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


The  Iceberg  of  Twillingate, 


106 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  Freedom  of  the  Seas  once  more. — A  Bumper  to  the  Queen  and 
President,  ........     112 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
Gull  Island. — ^The  Icebergs  of  Cape  St.  John, 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
The  Splendid  Icebergs  of  Cape  St.  John, 


115 


121 


X  CONTENTS. 

CIIAPTErw  XXVIII.  PAGE 

The  Seal  Fields. — Seals  and  Sealing. — Captain  Knight's  Shipwreck,         129 

I* 
CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Belle  Isle  and  the   Coast. — After-dinner   Discussion. — First  View  of 
Labrador. — Icebergs. — The  Ocean  and  the  Sunset,         .  .135 

CHAPTEE  XXX. 

The  Midnight  Look-out  Forward. — A  Stormy  Night. — The  Comedy  in 
the  Cabin,         .......  143 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

The  Cape  and  Bay  of  St.  Louis. — ^The  Iceberg. — Cariboo  Island. — 
Battle  Harbor  and  Island. — The  Anchorage. — The  Missionaries,       149 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
Battle  Island  and  its  Scenery,    .  .  .  .  ,  .155 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
Mosses,  Odors,  and  Flowers. — A  Dinner  Party,       .  .  .161 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Our  Boat  for  the   Icebergs. — After  the   Alpine  Berg. — Study  of  its 
Western  Face,       .  .  .  .  .  .  .166 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
The  Alpine  Berg. — Studies  of  its  Southern  Front. — Frightful  Explosion 
and  Fall  of  Ice. — Studies  of  the  Western  Side. — Our  Play  with  the 
Moose  Horns. — Splendor  of  the  Berg  at  Sunset,  .  .  169 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Ramble  among  the  Flowers  of  Battle  Island. — A  Visit  to  the  Fisher- 
men.— ^Walk  amoncr  the  Hills  of  Cariboo,  .  .  .     1*79 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


CHAPTER  XXXVII.  page 

After  the  Bay  St.  Louis  Iceberg. — Windsor  Castle  Iceberg. — Founders 

Suddenly. — A  Brilliant  Spectacle,  .  .  .  .        181 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Sunday  in  Labrador. — Evening  Walk  to  the  Graveyard. — The  Rocky 
Ocean  Shore,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .188 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
The  Sail  to  Fox  Harbor. — A  Day  with  the  Esquimaux,  and  our  Return,  192 

CHAPTER  XL. 

A  Morning  Ramble  over  Cariboo. — Excursion  on  the  Bay,  and  the  Tea- 
drinking  at  the  Solitary  Fisherman's,         .  .  .  .196 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
Painting  the  Cavern  of  Great  Island,  and  our  Sail  Homeward  in  a  Gale,    200 

CHAPTER  XLIL 

After  the  Iceberg  of  Belle  Isle.— The  Retreat  to  Cartwright's  Tickle.— 

Bridget  Kennedy's  Cottage,  and  the  Lonely  Stroll  over  Cariboo,       204 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  Iceberg  of  the  Figure-head. — The  Glory  and  the  Music  of  the  Sea 
at  Evening,  .......    210 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Cape  St.  Charles.- The  Rip  Van  Winkle  Berg.— The  Great  Castle 

Berg. — Studies  of  its  Different  Fronts,       ....     214 


CHxiPTER  XLV. 

The  Sail  for  St.  Charles  Mountain.— The  Salmon  Fishers. — The  Cavern 
of  St.  Charles  Mountain. — Burton's  Cottage. — Magnificent  Scene 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

from  St.  Charles  Mountain.— The  Painting  of  the  Rip  Van  Winkle 
•Berg. — The  Ice-vase,  and  the  Return  by  Moonlight,      .  .        219 

CHAPTEE  XLVI. 

After  our  Last  Iceberg. — The  Isles. — Twilight  Beauties  of  Icebergs. — 

Midnight  Illumination,        ......     228 

CHAPTEE  XLVII. 

Farewell  to  Battle  Harbor. — The  Straits  of  Belle  Isle. — Labrador  Land- 
scapes.— ^The  Wreck  of  the  Fishermen,  .  .  .        236 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 
Sketching  the  Passing  Bergs. — The  Story  of  an  Iceberg,  .  .     241 

CHAPTEE  XLIX. 
Drifting  in  the  Straits. — Retreat  to  Temple  Bay. — Picturesque  Scenery. 

— ^Voyager's  Saturday  Night,      .....        264 

CHAPTEE  L. 

Sunday  in  Temple  Bay. — Religious  Services. — The  Fisherman's  Dinner 
and  Conversation. — Chateau. — The  Wreck. — ^Winters  in  Labrador. 
— Icebergs  in  the  Winter. — The  French  Officers'  Frolic  with  an 
Iceberg. — Theory  of  Icebergs. — Currents  of  the  Strait. — The  Red 
Indians. — The  Return  to  the  Vessel,  ....     267 

CHAPTEE  LI. 

Evening  Walk  to  Temple  Bay  Mountain. — The  Little  Iceberg. — 
Troubles  of  the  Night,  and  Pleasures  of  the  Morning. — Up  the 
Straits.— The  Pinnacle  of  the  Last  Iceberg.  —  Gulf  of  St. 
Lawrence,  .......      274 

CHAPTEE  LII. 
Coast  Scenery. — Farewell  to  Labrador,  .  .  .  .279 


• 


CONTENTS. 


xm 


CHAPTER  LIII.  PAGE 

Western  Newfoundland. — The  Bay,  the  Islands,  and  the  Highlands  of 
St.  John. — Ingornachoix  Bay,    .....         28-i 

CHAPTEFw  LIV. 
Slow  Sailing  by  the  Bay  of  Islands. — The  River  Humber. — St.  George's 

River,  Cape,  and  Bay. — A  BriUiant  Sunset,  .  .  .28*7 

CHAPTER  LV. 

Foul  Weather.-— Cape  AnguiUe.— The  Clearing  Off.— The  Frolic  of  the 

Porpoises.— The  New  Cooks.— The  Ship's  Cat,     .  .       290 

CHAPTER  LVI. 

Paul's  Island. — Cape  North. — Coast  of  Cape  Breton. — Sydney 
Light  and  Harbor. — The  End  of  our  Voyage  to  Labrador,  and 
around  Newfoundland,        ......     298 

CHAPTER  LVII. 
Farewell  to  Captain  Knight. — On  our  way  across  Cape  Breton. — A 

Merry  Ride,  and  the  Rustic  Lover,         ....         301 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 
Evening  Ride  to  Mrs.  Kelly's  Tavern. — The  Supper  and  the  Lodging,       806 


CHAPTER  LIX. 
Sunday  at  David  Murdoch's. — Scenery  of  Bras  d'Or,    . 


314 


CHAPTER  LX. 
Off  for  the  Strait  of  Canso.— St.  Peters,  and  the  Country.— David  Mur- 
doch's Horses,  and  his  Driving. — Plaster  Cove, 


318 


CHAPTER  LXI. 
Adieu  to  David  and  Cape  Breton.— The  Strait  of  Canso.— Our  Nova 

Scotia  Coach.— St.  George's  Bay.— The  Ride  into  Antigonish,       .     322 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  LXII.  page 

New  Glasgow. — ^Thc  Ride  to  Truro. — Railway  Ride  to  Halifax. — Part- 
ing with  the  Painter,  ......     326 

CHAPTER  LXIII. 
Coach  Ride  from  Halifax  to  Windsor. — The  Prince  Edward's  Man,  and 

the  Gentleman  from  Newfoundland,  .  .  .  .     329 

CHAPTER  LXIV. 
Windsor. — The  Avon,  and  the  Tide. — Steamer  for  St.  Johns,  New 
Brunswick. — Mines  Basin. — Coast  Scenery. — The  Scene  of  Evan- 
geline.— Parsboro. — The  Bay  of  Fundy.' — Nova  Scotia  and  New 
Brunswick  Shores. — St.  Johns. —  The  Maine  Coast. —  Island  of 
Grand  Manan,        .  .  ,  ...  .  .     332 


ILLUSTEATIONS 


PAGE 

r.  1.— VIGNETTE— ICEBERGS  AT  SUNSET,       ...  1 
No.  2.— A   LARGE     ICEBERG     IN     THE     FORENOON    LIGHT 

NEAR    THE    INTEGRITY, 119 

No.  8.— AN  ARCHED  ICEBERG  IN   THE  AFTERNOON  LIGHT,  136 
No.  4.— ICE  FALLING  FROM  A  LOFTY  BERG,              .            .173 

No.  [>.— ICEBERG  IN  THE  MORNING   MIST— WHALE-BOAT,  214 

No.  G.— ICEBERG  IN  THE  STRAIT    OF  BELLE  ISLE,  .            .  241 


AFTER  ICEBEEGS  WITH  A  PAINTER. 


CHAPTER   I. 


COOL    AND    NOVEL. 


"  After  icebergs  ! "  exclaims  a  prudent,  but  imagi- 
nary person,  as  I  pencil  tbe  title  on  the  front  leaf  of  my 
note-book. 

"  Why,  after  deer  and  trout  among  the  Adirondack 
Mountains  with  John  Cheeney,  the  Leather-stocking  of 
those  wilds,  who  kills  his  moose  and  panther  with  a 
pistol ;  or  after  salmon  on  the  Jaques  Cartier  and 
Saguenay,  is  thought  to  be  quite  enough  for  your  sum- 
mer tourist. 

"After  buffalo  is  almost  too  much  for  any  not  at 
home  in  the  great  unfenced,  Uncle  Sam's  continental 
parks,  where  he  pastures  his  herds,  and  waters  them  in 


'2  COOL   AND   NOVEL. 

the  Platte  and  Colorado,  and  walls  out  the  Pacific  with 
the  Kocky  Mountains.  He  is  rather  a  fast  hunter  who 
indulges  in  the  chase  in  those  fair  fields.  It  is  no  boy's 
play  to  commit  yourself  to  mule  and  horse,  the  yawls  of 
the  prairie,  riding  yourself  sore  and  thirsty  over  the  grace- 
fully roUing,  never-breaking  swells,  the  green  seas  spark- 
ling with  dewy  flowers,  but  never  coming  ashore.  The 
ocean  done  up  in  sohd  land  is  weary  voyaging  to  one 
whose  youthful  footsteps  were  over  the  fields,  to  the  sound 
of  sabbath  bells. 

"  After  ostriches,  with  the  ship  of  the  desert,  although 
rather  a  hot  chase  for  John  and  Jonathan  over  broad 
sands,  yellow  with  the  sunshine  of  centuries,  and  the  bird 
speeding  on  legs  swift  as  the  spokes  of  the  rapid  wheels, 
is,  nevertheless,  a  pleasure  enjoyed  now  and  then. 

"  But  after  icebergs  is  certainly  a  cool,  if  not  a 
novel  and  perilous  adventure.  A  few  climb  to  the  ices 
of  the  Andes  ;  but  after  the  ices  of  Greenland,  except 
by  leave  of  government  or  your  merchant  prince,  is 
entirely  another  thing. 

"  You  will  do  well  to  recollect,  that  nature  works  in 
other  ways  in  the  high  north  than  in  the  high  Cordilleras 
and  Alps,  and  especially  in  the  latter,  where  she  carefully 
slides  her  mer-de-glace  into  the  warm  valley,  and  gently 
melts  it  off,  letting  it  run  merrily  and  freely  to  the  sea. 


COOL    AND    NOVEL. 

every  crystal  fetter  broken  into  silvery  foam.  But  in 
Greenland  she  heaves  her  mile-wide  glacier^  in  all  its 
flinty  hardness,  into  the  great  deep  bodily,  and  sends  it, 
both  a  glory  and  a  terror,  to  flourish  or  perish  as  the  cur- 
rents of  the  solemn  main  move  it  to  wintry  or  to  sum- 
mer climes.  After  icebergs  !  Weigh  well  the  perils  and 
the  pleasures  of  this  new  summer  hunting." 

"  We  have  weighed  them,  I  confess,  not  very  care- 
fully ;  only  ^  hefting '  them  a  little,  just  enough  to  help 
us  to  a  guess  that  both  are  somewhat  heavier  than  the 
ordinary  delights  and  dangers  of  sporting  nearer  home. 
But,  Prudens,  my  good  friend,  consider  the  ancient  saw, 

B  ^  Nothing  venture  nothing  have.'  Not  in  the  least  weary 
of  the  old,  we  would  yet  have  something  new,  altogether 

B  new.  You  shall  seek  the  beauties  of  scales  and  of 
plumage,  and  the  graces  of  motion  and  the  wild  music 
of  voices,  among  the  creatures  of  the  brooks  and  wood- 
lands. Our  game,  for  once,  is  the  wandering  alp  of  the 
waves ;  our  wilderness,  the  ocean ;  our  steed,  the  winged 
vessel ;  our  arms,  the  pencil  and  the  pen  ;  our  game- 
bags,  the  portfolio,  painting-box,  and  note-book,  all  harm- 
less instruments,  you  perceive,  with  mild  report.  It  is 
seldom  that  they  are  heard  at  any  distance,  although,  at 
intervals,  the  sound  has  gone  out  as  far  as  the  guns  of 

B  the  battle-field. 

m 


4  AFTER   ICEBERGS. 

"  Should  we  have  the  sport  we  anticipate,  you  may 
see  the  rarest  specimen  of  our  luck  preserved  in  oil  and 
colors,  a  method  peculiar  to  those  few,  who  intend  their 
articles  less  for  the  market  than  for  immortality,  as  men 
call  the  dim  glimmering  of  things  in  the  dusky  reaches 
of  the  past. 

'^But  you  shall  hear  from  us,  from  time  to  time,  if 
possible,  how  we  speed  in  our  grand  hunt,  and  how  the 
pleasures  and  the  risks  make  the  scale  of  our  experience 
vibrate.  Within  a  few  minutes,  we  shall  be  on  our  way 
to  Boston,  darting  across  grassy  New  England,  regardless 
as  the  riders  of  the  steeple-chase  of  cliff  and  gulf,  fence, 
wall  and  river,  with  a  velocity  of  wheels  that  would  set 
the  coach  on  fire,  did  not  ingenuity  stand  over  the  axles 
putting  out  the  flame  with  oil. 

"  This  evening,  we  meet  a  choice  few  in  one  of  those 
bowery  spots  of  Brookline,  where  intelligence  dwells  with 
taste  and  virtue,  and  talk  of  our  excursion. 

"  To-morrow,  amid  leave-takings,  smiles  and  tears, 
and  the  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  of  which  we  shall  be 
only  quiet  spectators,  with  the  odor  of  our  first  sea-dinner 
seasoning  the  brief  excitement  of  the  scene,  and  all 
handsomely  rounded  off  with  the  quick  thunder  of  the 
parting  gun,  we  sail,  at  noon,  in  the  America." 


CHAPTEK  II. 


ON    THE    EDGE    OP    THE   GULF-STEEAM. 


Friday  Moening,  June  17,  1859.  Here  we  are  on 
the  edge  of  the  Gfulf-Stream,  loitering  in  a  fog  that  would 
seem  to  drape  the  whole  Atlantic  in  its  chilly,  dismal 
shroud.  We  are  as  impatient  as  children  before  the 
drop-curtain  of  a  country  show,  and  in  momentary  ex- 
pectation that  this  unlucky  mist  will  rise  and  exhibit 
Halifax,  where  we  leave  the  steamer,  and  take  a  small 
coasting -vessel  for  Cape  Breton  and  Newfoundland. 

As  we  anticipated,  both  of  us  have  been  sea-sick  con- 
tinually. I  had  hoped  that  we  should  have  the  pleasure 
of  one  dinner  at  least,  with  that  good  appetite  so  com- 
mon upon  coming  off  into  the  salt  air.  But  before  the 
soup  was  fairly  off  there  came  over  me  the  old  qualm, 


b  ON    THE    EDGE    OF    THE    GULF-STREAM. 

the  herald  of  those  dreadful  impulses  that  drive  the  un- 
happy victim  either  to  the  side  of  the  vessel,  or  down  into 
its  interior,  where  he  lays  himself  out,  pale  and  trembling, 
on  his  appointed  shelf,  and  awaits  in  gloomy  silence  the 
final  issue.  It  is  needless  to  record,  that,  with  that  un- 
lucky attempt  to  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  the  table,  perished, 
not  only  the  power,  but  the  wish  to  eat. 

Yesterday,  when  I  came  on  deck,  I  found  C con- 
versing with  Agassiz.  Although  so  familiar  with  the  Al- 
pine glaciers,  and  all  that  appertains  to  them,  he  had  never 
seen  an  iceberg,  and  almost  envied  us  the  dehght  and  ex- 
citement of  hunting  them.  But  not  even  the  presence 
and  the  fine  talk  of  the  great  naturalist  could  lay  the 
spirit  of  sea-sickness.  Like  a  very  adder  lurking  under 
the  doorstone  of  appetite,  it  refused  to  hear  the  voice  of 
the  charmer.  Out  it  glided,  repulsive  reptile  !  and  away 
we  stole,  creeping  down  into  our  state-room,  there  to  bur- 
row in  damp  sheets,  taciturn  and  melancholy  "  wretches, 
with  thoughts  concentred  all  in  self."  An  occasion?! 
remark,  either  sad  or  laughable,  broke  the  sameness  of 
the  literally  rolling  hours.  By  what  particular  process 
of  mind,  I  shall  not  trouble  myself  to  explain,  the  Paint- 
er, who  occupied  the  lower  berth,  all  at  once  gave  signs 
that  he  had  come  upon  the  borders  of  a  capital  story,  and 
with  the  spirit  to  carry  even  a  dull  listener  to  the  further 


ON   THE    EDGE    OF   THE   GULF-STKEAM. 


side  of  it,  and  keep  him  thoroughly  amused.  It  was  a 
traveller's  tale,  a  story  of  his  own  first  ride  over  the 
mountains  of  New  Granada,  accompanied  by  a  friend,  on 
his  way  to  the  Andes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    PAINTEE'S    S  T  0  E  Y. 

Twenty  days,  and  most  of  them  days  of  intense  heat 
and  sea-sicknesSj  were  spent  on  a  brig  from  New  York  to 
the  mouth  of  the  Magdalena.  In  twenty  minutes  all  that 
tedious  voyage  was  sailed  over  again,  and  he  was  in  the 
best  humor  possible  for  the  next  nine  days  in  a  steam- 
boat up  the  river,  a  mighty  stream,  whose  forests  appear 
like  hills  of  verdure  ranging  along  its  almost  endless 
banks. 

After  the  steamboat,  came  a  tiresome  time  in  a  canoe, 
followed  by  a  dark  and  fireless  night  in  the  great  woods, 
where  tl^ey  were  stung  by  the  ants,  and  startled  by  the 
hootings  and  bowlings,  and  all  the  strange  voices  and 
noises  of  a  tropical  forest. 

Then  the  tale  kept  pace  with  the  mules  all  day,  jogging 


THE    PAINTER  S    STORY. 

on  slowly,  an  all-day  story  that  pictured  to  the  listener's 
mind  all  the  passing  scenery  and  incidents,  the  people 
and  the  travellers  themselves,  even  the  ears  of  the  self- 
willed,  ever-curious  mules.  Towards  sunset,  the  way- 
farers found  themselves  journeying  along  the  slope  of  a 
mountain,  willing  to  turn  in  for  the  night  at  almost  any 
dwelling  that  appeared  at  the  road-side.  The  guide  and 
the  baggage  were  behind,  and  suggested  the  propriety  of 
an  early  halt.  But  each  place,  to  which  they  looked  for- 
y  ward,  seemed  sufficiently  repulsive,  upon  coming  up,  to 
make  them  venture  on  to  the  next.  They  ventured,  with- 
out knowing  it,  beyond  the  very  last,  and  got  benighted 
where  it  was  difficult  enough  in  the  broad  day.  After  a 
weary  ride  up  and  up,  until  it  did  appear  that  they  would 
never  go  down  again  in  that  direction,  they  stopped  and 
consulted,  but  finally  concluded  to  continue  on,  although 
the  darkness  was  almost  total,  trusting  to  the  mules  to 
keep  the  path.  At  length  it  was  evident  that  they  were 
at  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  passing  over  upon  its 
opposite  side.  Very  soon,  the  road,  a  mere  bridle-path, 
became  steep  and  rugged,  leading  along  the  edges  of  pre- 
cipices, and  down  rocky,  zigzag  steps,  that  nothing  but 
the  bold,  sure-footed  mule  would  or  could  descend.  The 
fact  was,  they  were  going  down  a  fearfully  dangerous 

mountain-road,  on  one  of  the  darkest  nights.     And,  won- 
1* 


10  THE   painter's    STORY. 

derful  to  tell,  they  went  down  safely,  coming  out  of  the 
forest  into  a  level  vale  beset  with  thickets  and  vine-cov- 
ered trees,  a  horrible  perplexity,  in  which  they  became 
heated,  scratched,  and  vexed  beyond  all  endurance.  At 
last,  they  lost  the  way  and  came  to  a  dead  halt.     Here# 

C got  off,  and  leaving  the  mule  with  F ,  plunged 

into  the  bushes  to  feel  for  the  path,  pausing  occasionally 
to  shout  and  to  wait  for  an  answer.  No  path,  however, 
could  be  found.  In  his  discouragement,  he  climbed  a 
tree  with  the  hope  of  seeing  a  light.  He  climbed  it  to  the 
very  top,  and  gazed  around  in  all  directions  into  the  wide, 
unbroken  night.  There  was  a  star  or  two  in  the  black 
vault,  but  no  gleam  of  human  dwelling  to  be  seen  below. 
Extremes  do  indeed  meet,  even  the  dreadful  and  the 

ridiculous.      And  so  it  was  with  C in  the  tree-top. 

From  almost  desperation,  he  passed  into  a  frolicsome 
mood,  and  began  to  talk  and  shout,  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
in  about  the  only  Spanish  he  could  then  speak,  that  he 
would  give  cinco  pesos,  cinco  pesos, — five  dollars,  five  dol- 
lars, to  any  one  that  would  come  and  help  them.  From 
five  he  rose  to  ten.  But  being  scant  of  Spanish,  he  could 
express  the  ten  in  no  other  way  than  by  doubling  the 
cinco — cinco  cinco  pesos,  cinco  cinco  pesos.  Fruitless 
effort !  A  thousand  pounds  would  have  evoked  no 
friendly  voice  from  the  inhospitable  solitude. 


I 


THE   painter's    STORY.  11 

The  airing,  though,  was  refreshing,  and  he  clambered 
down  and  attempted  his  way  back,  shouting  as  usual, 
but  now,  to  his  surprise,  getting  no  reply.  What  could 
it  mean  ?  Where  was  F ?  Had  he  got  tired  of  wait- 
ing, and  gone  off  ?    With  redoubled  energy  C pushed 

on  through  the  interminable  brush  to  see.  He  was  in  a 
perfect  blaze  of  heat,  and  dripping  with  perspiration.  A 
thousand  vines  tripped  him,  a  thousand  branches  whipped 
him  in  the  face.  When  he  stopped  to  listen,  his  ears 
rung  with  the  beating  of  his  own  heart,  and  he  made  the 
night  ring  too  with  his  loud  hallooing.  But  no  one  an- 
swered, and  no  mules  could  be  found.  Nothing  was  left 
but  to  push  forward,  and  he  did  it,  with  a  still  increasing 
energy.  Instantly,  with  a  crack  and  crash  he  pitched 
headlong  down  quite  a  high  bank  into  a  broad  brook. 
For  a  moment  he  was  frightened,  but  finding  himself 
sound,  and  safely  seated  on  the  soft  bottom  of  the  brook, 
he  concluded  to  enjoy  himself,  moving  up  and  down, 
with  the  warm  water  nearly  to  his  neck,  till  he  had 
enough  of  it ;  when  he  got  up,  and  felt  his  way  to  the  op- 
posite bank,  which,  unfortunately  for  him,  was  some 
seven  or  eight  feet  of  steep,  wet  clay.  Again  and  again 
did  he  crawl  nearly  to  the  top,  and  slip  back  into  the 
water — a  treadmill  operation  that  was  no  joke.  A  suc- 
cessful attempt  at  scaling  this  muddy  barrier  was  made. 


12  THE    painter's    STORY. 

at    length,    through    the    kindly   intervention    of  some 
vines. 

But  how  was  all  that  ?  Where  was  he  ?  He  never 
crossed  a  stream  in  going  to  the  tree.  He  must  be  lost. 
He  must  have  become  turned  at  the  tree,  and  gone  in  a 
wrong  direction.  And  yet  he  could  not  relinquish  the 
notion  that  all  was  right.  He  decided  to  continue  for- 
ward, pausing  more  frequently  to  halloo.  To  his  exceed- 
ing joy,  he  presently  heard  a  faint,  and  no  very  distant  re- 
ply.   He  quickly  heard  it  again^-close  at  hand — "  C , 

come  here  ! — come  here  !  "     He  hastened  forward.    F 


was  sitting  on  the  mule.  He  said,  in  a  low  tone  of  voice, 
"  Come  here,  and  help  me  off.     I  am  very  sick."     He 

was  alarmingly  sick.     C helped  him  down,  and  laid 

him  on  the  ground.  The  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to 
make  a  rough  bed  of  the  saddles  and  blankets,  secure  the 
mules,  and  wait  for  daylight.  While  engaged  in  this, 
one  of  the  mules  suddenly  broke  away,  and  with  a  perilous 

flourish  of  heels  about  C 's  head,  dashed  off  through 

the  thickets,  and  was  seen  no  more.  To  crown  their 
troubles,  a  ferocious  kind  of  ant  attacked  them  at  all 
points,  and  kept  up  their  assault  during  the  remainder 
of  the  miserable  night.  They  had  made  their  bed  upon 
a  large  ant-hill.  In  the  morning,  there  they  were,  they 
knew  not  where,  with  but  one  mule,  trappings  for  two. 


THE   painter's   STORY. 


13 


I 


and  F too  indisposed  to  proceed.    C mounted  the 

mule  and  set  off  for  relief.  A  short  ride  brought  him  out 
upon  the  path,  which  soon  led  down  to  the  border  of  a  wide 
marsh.  The  crossing  of  the  marsh  was  terrible.  The  poor 
animal  sank  into  the  mire  to  the  girth,  reared,  plunged  and 
rolled,  plastering  himself  and  rider  all  over  and  over  again 
^vith  the  foulest  mud.  When  they  reached  the  solid  ground, 
and  trotted  along  towards  some  natives  coming  abroad  to 
their  labor,  the  appearance  of  our  traveller,  in  quest  of 
the  subUme  and  beautiful,  was  certainly  not  imposing. 
He  told  his  story  to  the  staring  Indians  in  the  best  way 
his  ingenuity  could  invent,  none  of  which  they  could  be 
made  to  comprehend.  He  inquired  the  way  to  the 
town,  the  very  name  of  which  they  seemed  never  to  have 
heard.  He  asked  the  distance  to  any  place, — the  near- 
est,— no  matter  what.  It  was  just  as  far  as  he  was 
pleased  to  make  it. 

"  Was  it  two  leagues  ?  " 

"  Si,  Senor.'^ 

"  Was  it  five  leagues  .^  " 

"  Si,  Senor." 

"Was  it  eight,  nine,  ten  leagues  .^  '' 

"  Si,  Senor." 

"  For  how  much  money  would  they  guide  him  to  the 
town  .?  " 


14  THE  painter's   STORY. 

Ah. !  that  was  a  different  thing ;  they  had  more  intel- 
ligence on  that  subject.  They  would  guide  him  for  a 
great  deal.  In  fact,  they  would  do  it  for  about  ten  times 
its  value.  He  spurred  his  muddy  mule,  galloped  out  of 
sight  and  hearing,  more  amused  than  vexed,  and  went 
ahead  at  a  venture.  The  venture  was  lucky.  In  the 
course  of  the  morning  he  made  his  entrance  into  the 
city,  succeeded  in  finding  out  the  residence  of  the  person 
to  whom  he  had  letters  of  introduction,  presented  himself 
to  the  gentleman  of  the  house,  an  American,  and  had 
both  a  welcome  and  a  breakfast.  Before  the  day  was 
past,  F — —  and  himself  were  comfortably  settled,  and, 
with  their  kind  host,  were  making  merry  over  their  first 
ride  on  the  mountains  of  South  America.  I  am  sure  I 
was  made  merry  at  the  quiet  recital.  Lying  as  I  was  in 
my  berth,  rolled  in  cloak  and  blanket,  and  looking  neither 
at  the  face  nor  motions  of  the  speaker,  but  only  at  the 
blank  beams  and  boards  close  above,  I  laughed  till  the 
tears  ran  copiously,  and  I  forgot  that  I  was  miserable 
and  sea-sick. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


HALIFAX. 


We  have  now  been  lying  for  hours  off  Halifax.  The 
fog  appears  to  be  in  a  profound  slumber.  Whistle,  bell 
and  big  guns  have  no  power  to  wake  it  up.  The  waves 
themselves  have  gone  to  sleep  under  the  fleecy  covering. 
Old  Ocean  lazily  breathes  and  dreams.  The  top-mast, 
lofty  and  slim,  marks  and  flourishes  on  the  misty  sky,  as 
an  idler  marks  the  sand  with  his  cane.  Pricked  on  by 
our  impatience,  back  and  forth  we  step  the  deck,  about  as 
purposeless  as  leopards  step  their  cage.  They  are  letting 
off  the  steam.  It  is  flowing  up  from  the  great  fountains, 
a  deep  and  solemn  voice,  a  grand  ventriloquism,  that 
muffles  in  its  breadth  and  fulness  all  the  smaller  sounds, 
as  the  mighty  roar  dampens  the  noisy  dashings  of  the 

tct.     What   a  sublime  translation  of  human  skill 


I 


16  HALIFAX. 

iron !  How  splendid  are  its  polished  limbs  !  What 
power  in  all  those  easy  motions  !  What  execution  in 
those  still  and  oily  manoeuvres  ! 

Among  the  ladies  there  is  one  of  more  than  ordinary 
beauty.  Luxuriant,  dark  hair,  a  fair  complexion  with 
the  bloom  of  health,  a  head  and  neck  that  would  attract 
a  sculptor,  and  surpassingly  fine,  black  eyes.  There  is  a 
power  in  beauty.  Why  has  not  God  given  it  to  us  all  ? 
You  shall  answer  me  that  in  heaven.  There  is  indeed  a 
power  in  beauty.  It  goes  forth  from  this  young  woman 
on  all  sides,  like  rays  from  some  central  light.  I  have 
called  her  a  New  England  girl,  but  she  turns  out  to  be 
Welsh. 

How  like  magic  is  the  work  of  this  fog !  Instantly 
almost  it  is  pulled  apart  like  a  fleece  of  wool,  and  lo  ! 
the  heavens,  the  ocean,  and  the  rugged  shores.  A  pilot 
comes  aboard  from  a  fishing-boat,  looking  as  rough  and 
craggy  as  if  he  had  been,  toad-like,  blasted  out  of  the 
rocks  of  his  flinty  country,  so  brown  and  warty  is  his 
skin,  so  shaggy  are  his  beard  and  hair,  so  sail-like  and 
tarry  is  his  raiment.  The  ancient  mariner  for  all  the 
world  !  His  skinny  hand  touches  no  common  mortal. 
His  glittering  eye  looks  right  on,  as  he  moves  with  silent 
importance  to  the  place  where  shine  the  gilded  buttons 
of  the  captain. 


HALIFAX. 


This  is  a  wild  northern  scene.  Hills,  bony  with  rock 
and  bristling  with  pointed  firs,  slope  down  to  the  sea. 
But  yet  how  beautiful  is  any  land  looking  off  upon  the 
barren  deeps  of  ocean.  Distant  is  the  city  on  a  hill-side, 
glittering  at  a  thousand  points,  while  on  either  hand,  as 
we  move  in  at  the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  are  the  pleas- 
ant woods  and  the  white  dwellings,  country  steeples  and 
cultivated  grounds.  As  the  comfortless  mist  rolls  away, 
and  the  golden  light  follows  after,  warming  the  wet  and 
chilly  landscape,  I  feel  that  there  are  bliss  and  beauty 
in  Nova  Scotia. 

Grandly  as  we  parade  ourselves,  in  the  presence  of 
the  country  and  the  town,  I  prefer  the  more  modest, 
back-street  entrance  of  the  railroad.  The  fact  is,  I  am 
afraid  of  your  great  steamer  on  the  main,  and  for  the 
reason  given  by  a  friend  of  mine  :  if  you  have  a  smash- 
up  on  the  land,  why,  there  you  are  ;  if,  on  the  sea,  where 
are  you  ? 

I  have  been  talking  with  the  fair  lady  of  Wales.  She 
was  all  spirit.  "  There  was  much,''  she  said,  "  that  was 
fine,  in  America  ;  but  Wales  was  most  beautiful  of  all. 
Had  I  ever  been  in  Wales  ?  "  One  could  well  have  felt 
sorry  he  was  not  then  on  his  way  to  Wales.  We  parted 
where  we  met,  probably  to  meet  no  more,  and  I  went  for- 
ward to  gaze  upon  the  crowded  wharf,  which  we  were 


18  HALIFAX. 

then  approaching.  A  few  hasty  adieus  to  some  newly- 
formed  acquaintances,  and  we  passed  ashore  to  seek  the 
steamer  for  Cape  Breton.  It  was  waiting  for  us  just  be- 
hind the  storehouse  where  we  landed,  and  soon  followed 
the  America  with  a  speed  not  exactly  in  proportion  to 
the  noise  and  effort. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  MERLIN. 


I 


Be  it  known  that  the  Merlin,  the  name  in  which  our 
vessel  delights,  is  a  small  propeller,  with  a  screw  wheel, 
and  a  crazy  mess  of  machinery  in  the  middle,  which  go 
far  towards  making  one  deaf  and  dumb  by  day,  but  very 
wakeful  and  talkative  by  night ;  so  thoroughly  are  the 
rumbling,  thumping  and  clanking  disseminated  through 
all  those  parts  appointed  for  the  passengers.  The  Merlin 
has  not  only  her  peculiar  noises,  but  her  own  peculiar 
ways  and  motions  ;  motions  half  wallowing  and  half  pro- 
gressive ;  a  compound  motion  very  difficult  to  describe, 
f  at  the  time,  mainly  on  account  of  a  disagreeable  con- 
fusion in  the  brain  and  stomach. 
B  The  arrangements  in  the  Merlin  for  going  to  repose 

H    are  better  than  those  for  quitting  it.     No  chestnut  lies 


20  THE   MERLIN. 

more  snugly  in  the  burr  than  your  passenger  in  his  berth. 
If  he  happen  to  be  short  and  slender,  it  is  sure  to  fit  him 
all  the  better.  But  when  he  gets  out  of  it,  he  is  pushed 
forward  into  company  immediately,  and  washes  in  the 
one  bowl,  and  looks  at  the  one  glass.  On  board  the  Mer- 
lin, one  feels  disposed  to  give  the  harshest  words  of  his 
vocabulary  a  frequent  airing.  He  sees  how  it  is,  and  he 
says  to  himself :  I  have  the  secret  of  this  Merlin  ;  she  is 
intended  to  put  a  stop  to  travel ;  to  hinder  people  from 
leaving  Halifax  for  Sydney  and  St.  Johns.  Wait  you 
eight  and  forty  hours  after  this  ungenerous  soliloquy,  and 
speak  out  then.  What  do  you  say  ?  The  Merlin  is  the 
thing  ! 

Away  in  this  dusky  comer  of  the  world  Peril  spins  her 
web.  High  and  wide  and  deep  she  stretches  her  subtle 
lines :  cliffs,  reefs  and  banks,  ice,  currents,  mists  and 
winds.  But  the  Merlin  is  no  moth,  no  feeble  insect  to  get 
entangled  in  this  terrible  snare.  Dark-winged  dragon- 
fly of  the  sea,  she  cuts  right  through  them  all.  Your 
grand  ocean  steamer,  with  commander  of  repute,  plays 
the  tragic  actress  quite  too  frequently  in  the  presence  of 
these  dread  capes.  But  the  Merlin,  with  Captain  Samp- 
son's tread  upon  the  deck,  in  the  night  and  in  the  light, 
with  his  look  ahead  and  his  eye  aloft,  and  his  plummet 
in  the  deep  sea,  trips  along  her  billowy  path  as  lightly  as 


THE   MERLIN. 

a  lady  trips  among  her  flowers.  A  blessing  upon  Captain 
Sampson  who  sails  the  little  Merlin  from  Nova  Scotia  to 
Newfoundland.     He  deserves  to  sail  an  Adriatic. 

Here  we  are  again  in  that  same  bad  fog,  that  smoth- 
ered much  of  our  pleasure,  and  some  of  our  good  luck,  in 
the  America.  It  is  gloomy  midnight,  and  the  sea  is  up. 
A  pale,  blue  flame  crowns  the  smoke-stack,  and  sheds  a 
dreary  light  upon  the  sooty,  brown  sails.  The  breeze 
plays  its  wild  music  in  the  tight  rigging,  while  the  swells 
beat  the  bass  on  the  hollow  bow.  To  a  landsman,  how 
frightfully  the  Merlin  rolls  !  But  we  are  dashing  along 
through  this  awful  wilderness,  right  steadily.  Every  hour 
carries  us  ten  miles  nearer  port.  Ye  wandering  barks,  on 
this  dark,  uncertain  highway,  do  hear  the  mournful  clang 
of  our  bell,  and  turn  out  in  time  as  the  law  of  nature 
directs  !  Ye  patient,  watchful  mariners  that  keep  the 
look-out  forward,  pierce  the  black  mist  with  your  keen 
sight,  and  spy  the  iceberg,  that  white  sepulchre  of  the 
careless  sailor.  Just  here  there  is  a  mountain  in  the 
deep,  and  we  are  crossing  its  summit,  which  accounts  for 
the  sharp,  rough  sea,  the  captain  tells  me.  The  vessel 
now  turns  into  the  wind,  the  loose  sails  roar  and  crack, 

■  and  bound  in  their  strong  harness,  like  frightened  horses  ; 

■  loud  voices    cut   through   the    uproar,   rapid    footsteps 


22  THE   MERLIN. 

is  a  momentary  lull :  they  heave  the  lead.  The  moun- 
tain top  is  under  us,  say,  ^yq  hundred  feet.  All  is 
right.  Captain  Sampson  puts  off  into  wider  waters,  and 
I,  chilly  and  damp,  creep  into  my  berth,  full  of  hope 
and  sleep. 


CHAPTEK   VI. 

EY.-CAPE    BEETON.— THE    OCEAN. 

Monday,  June  19,  1859.  We  are  still  rising  and 
sinking  on  the  misty  ocean,  and  somewhere  on  those 
great  currents  flowing  from  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence. 

Yesterday,  at  an  early  hour^  we  were  entering  Sydney 
Harbor,  Cape  Breton,  with  a  tide  from  sea,  and  a  flood 
of  brightness  from  the  sun.  The  lively  waters,  the  grassy 
fields  dotted  with  white  dwellings,  and  the  dark  green 
woodlands  were  bathed  in  splendor.  A  few  clouds,  that 
might  have  floated  away  from  the  cotton-fields  of  Ala- 
bama, kept  Sunday  in  the  quiet  heavens.  We  went 
ashore  with  some  thought  of  attending  church,  but  found 
the  time  would  not  permit.  A  short  walk  to  some  In- 
dian huts,  with  the  smoke  curling  up  from  their  peaks 
like  the  pictures  of  volcanoes,  a  cup  of  tea  of  our  own 
making,  some  toast  and  fresh  eggs  in  the  village  tavern, 


24       SYDNEY. CAPE  BRETON. — THE  OCEAN. 

with  the  comfort  of  sitting  to  enjoy  them  at  a  steady 
table  on  firm  land,  gave  an  agreeable  seasoning  to  the 
hour  we  lingered  in  Sydney,  and  braced  us  for  the  long 
stretch  across  to  Newfoundland. 

As  you  enter  Sydney  Bay,  you  see  northward  some 
remarkable  cliffs,  fan-like  in  shape  as  they  rise  from  the 
sea.  In  the  clear  and  brilliant  morning  air,  they  had  a 
roseate  and  almost  flame-like  hue,  which  made  them  ap- 
pear very  beautiful.  I  thought  of  them  as  some  gigantic 
sea-shells  placed  upon  the  brim  of  the  blue  main.  When 
they  set  in  the  waves,  along  in  the  afternoon,  the  pic- 
turesque coast  of  Cape  Breton  was  lost  to  view,  and  we 
became,  to  all  appearance,  a  fixture  in  the  centre  of  the 
circle  made  by  the  sky  and  the  sea.  How  wearisome  it 
grew  !  Always  moving  forward, — yet  never  getting  further 
from  the  line  behind, — never  getting  nearer  to  the  line  be- 
fore,— ever  in  the  centre  of  the  circle.  The  azure  dome  was 
over  us,  its  pearl-colored  eaves  all  around  us.  Oh  !  that 
some  power  would  lift  its  edge,  all  dripping  with  the 
brine  of  centuries,  out  of  the  ocean,  and  let  the  eye  peep 
under  1  But  all  is  changeless.  We  were  under  the  cen- 
tre of  the  dome,  and  on  the  hub  of  the  great  wheel,  run 
out  upon  its  long  spokes  as  rapidly  and  persistently  as 
we  would.  Our  stiff  ship  was  dashing,  breast-deep, 
through  the  green  and  purple  banks  that  old  Neptune 


SYDNEY. — CAPE  BRETON. THE  OCEAN. 

heaved  up  across  our  path.     Bank  after  bank  he  rolled 
up  before  us,  and  our  strong  bows  burst  them  all,  striking 
foam,  snowy  foam,  out  of  them  by  day,  and  liquid  jewelry 
out  of  them  by  night.    The  circle  was  still  around  us,  the 
tip  of  the  dome  above.     We  were  leaving  half  a  world  of 
things,  and  approaching  half  a  world  of  things,  and  yet 
we  were  that  same  fixture.     Our  brave  motions,  after 
all,   turned   out  to  be  a   kind  of  writhing  on  a  point, 
in  the  middle  of  the  mighty  ring,  under  the  key-stone  of 
the  marvellous  vault.     The  comfort  of  the  weary  time 
was,  that  we  sailed  away  from  the  niorning,  passed  under 
the  noon,  and  came  up  with,  and  cut  through  the  evening. 
When  we  caught  up  with  the  evening  yesterday,  and 
saw  the  sun  set  fire  to,  and  burn  off  that  everlasting  ring, 
we  were  sitting  quietly  on  deck,  touched  with  the  sweet 
solemnities  of  the  hallowed  hour.     The  night,  with  all 
that  it  would  bring  us,  was  coming  out  of  the  east,  mov- 
ing up  its  stupendous  shadow  over  the  ocean  ;  the  day, 
with  all  it  had  been  to  us,  was  leaving  us,  going  off  into 
the  west  over  the  great  continent.    We  were  crossing  the 
twilight,  that  narrow,  lonesome,  neutral  ground,  where 
gloom  and   splendor   interlock  and  wrestle.     The  little 
petrel  piped  his  feeble  notes,  and  flew  close  up,  following 
under  the  very  feathers  of  the  ship,  now  skimming  the 

glassy  hollow  of  the  swells,  and  then  tiptoe  on  the  crest. 
2 


26       SYDNEY. — CAPE  BRETON. THE  OCEAN. 

The  wind  was  strengthening,  tuning  every  cord  and 
straining  every  sail,  winnowing  the  fiery  chaff,  and  sowing 
the  sparkling  grain  forward  on  the  furrowed  waters. 
We  had  a  vessel  full  of  wind  ;  and  so  vessel,  wind  and 
sparks  together,  went  away  across  the  sea  as  if  they  were 
seeking  some  grand  rendezvous.  Far  and  wide  the 
waves  all  hastened  in  the  same  direction,  rolling,  leaping, 
crumbling  into  foam,  bristling  the  snowy  feathers  on  neck 
and  breast  as  they  skipped  and  flew  upon  each  other  in 
their  play  and  passion.  And  so  we  all  sped  forward  with 
one  will,  and  with  one  step,  keeping  time  to  the  music  of 
the  mighty  band  :  clouds,  winds  and  billows,  seabirds, 
sails  and  sparkling  smoke,  and  Merlin  with  her  men  ;  all 
moving  forward,  as  some  grand  army  moves  onward  to  a 
battle-field.  When  there  is  really  nothing  to  describe, 
why  should  not  one  record  the  conceits  and  fancies  born 
of  an  evening  at  sea  ?  So  I  thought,  last  evening,  when 
I  was  a  little  sea-sick,  and  sick  of  the  monotony  of  the 
scene,  and  a  little  home-sick,  and  felt  that  this  was 
pleasure  rather  dearly  bought.  Still  if  one  would  see  the 
planet  upon  which  he  has  taken  his  passage  round  the 
sun,  and  through  the  spaces  of  the  universe,  he  must  be 
brave  and  patient,  hopeful  and  good-tempered.  Be  this, 
or  turn  back,  at  the  first  view  of  salt-water,  and  go  home 
to  toil,  to  contentment  and  self-possession. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 


THE    FIPwST    ICEBERGS. 


Newfoundland  seems  to  be  wreathed  with  fogs  for- 
ever. As  a  dwelling-place,  this  world  certainly  appears 
far  from  complete, — an  argument  for  a  better  country. 
But  yonder  is  the  blue  sky  peeping  through  the  mist,  an 
intimation  of  that  better  country.  A  solitary  bird  sits 
upon  a  stick  floating  by,  looking  back  curiously  as  it 
grows  less  and  less.  Now  it  merely  dots  the  gleaming 
wave,  and  now  it  is  quite  wiped  away.  Thus  float  off 
into  the  past  the  winged  pleasures  of  the  hour. 

Again  we  are  at  blindman's-bufi"  in  the  fog.  The 
whistle  and  the  bell  remind  us  of  the  perils  of  this  play. 
The  gloom  of  evening  deepens,  and  we  go  below  with  the 
hope  of  rounding  Cape  Kace,  and  of  wheeling  down  the 
northern  sea  direct  for  port,  before  daylight.  Down  the 
northern  sea  ! — This  calling  north  doion  instead  of  up. 


28  THE   FIRST   ICEBERGS. 

appears  to  me  to  be  reversing  the  right  order  of  things. 
It  is  against  the  stream,  which,  inshore,  sets  from  Baffin's 
Bay  south  ;  and,  in  respect  of  latitude,  it  is  up-hill :  the 
nearer  the  pole,  the  higher  the  latitude.  And  besides, 
it  is  up  on  the  map,  and  was  up  all  through  my  boyhood, 
when  geography  was  a  favorite  study.  But  as  down 
seems  to  be  the  direction  settled  upon  in  common  par- 
lance, doivn  it  shall  be  in  all  these  pages. 

Icebergs  !  Icebergs  ! — The  cry  brought  us  upon  deck 
at  sunrise.  There  they  were,  two  of  them,  a  large  one 
and  a  smaller :  the  latter  pitched  upon  the  dark  and 
misty  desert  of  the  sea  like  an  Arab's  tent ;  and  the 
larger  like  a  domed  mosque  in  marble  of  a  greenish  white. 
The  vaporous  atmosphere  veiled  its  sharp  outlines,  and 
gave  it  a  softened,  dreamy  and  mysterious  character. 
Distant  and  dim,  it  was  yet  very  grand  and  impressive. 
Enthroned  on  the  deep  in  lonely  majesty,  the  dread  of 
mariners,  and  the  wonder  of  the  traveller,  it  was  one  of 
those  imperial  creations  of  nature  that  awaken  powerful 
emotions,  and  illumine  the  imagination.  Wonderful 
structure  !  Fashioned  by  those  fingers  that  wrought  the 
glittering  fabrics  of  the  upper  deep,  and  launched  upon 
those  adamantine  ways  into  Arctic  seas,  how  beautiful, 
how  strong  and  terrible  !  A  glacier  slipped  into  the 
ocean,  and  henceforth  a  wandering  cape,  a  restless  head- 


THE    FIRST    ICEBERi 


land,  a  revolving  island,  to  compromise  the  security  of  the 
world's  broad  highway.  No  chart,  no  sounding,  no 
knowledge  of  latitude  avails  to  ^x  thy  whereabout,  thou 
roving  Ishmael  of  the  sea.  No  look-out,  and  no  friendly 
hail  or  authoritative  warning  can  cope  with  thy  secrecy 
or  thy  silence.  Mist  and  darkness  are  thy  work-day 
raiment.  Though  the  watchman  lay  his  ear  to  the  water, 
he  may  not  hear  thy  coming  footsteps. 

We  gazed  at  the  great  ark  of  nature's  Ijuilding  with 
steady,  silent  eyes.  Motionless  and  solemn  as  a  tomb,  it 
seemed  to  look  back  over  the  waves  as  we  sped  forward 
into  its  grand  presence.  The  captain  changed  the  course 
of  the  steamer  a  few  points  so  as  to  pass  it  as  closely  as 

possible.    C was  quietly  making  preparation  to  sketch 

it.  The  interest  was  momentarily  increasing.  We  were 
on  our  way  to  hunt  icebergs,  and  had  unexpectedly  come 
up  with  the  game.  We  fancied  it  was  growing  colder, 
and  felt  delighted  at  the  chilly  air,  as  if  it  had  been  so 
milch  breath  fresh  from  the  living  ice.  To  our  regret,  I 
may  say,  to  our  grief,  the  fog  suddenly  closed  the  view. 
^  No  drop-curtain  could  have  shut  out  the  spectacle  more 
H  quickly  and  more  completely.  The  steamer  was  at  once 
^m  put  on  her  true  course,  and  the  icebergs  were  left  to  pur- 
^1     sue  their  solitary  way  along  the  misty  Atlantic. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

NEWFOUNDLAND. -St.    JOHNS. 

When  the  mist  dispersed,  the  rocky  shores  of  New- 
foundland were  close  upon  our  left,— lofty  cliffs,  red  and 
gray,  terribly  beaten  by  the  waves  of  the  broad  ocean. 
We  amused  ourselves,  as  we  passed  abreast  the  bays  and 
headlands  and  rugged  islands,  with  gazing  at  the  v/ild 
scene,  and  searching  out  the  beauty  timidly  reposing 
among  the  bleak  and  desolate.  On  the  whole,  Newfound- 
land, to  the  voyager  from  the  States,  is  a  lean  and  bony 
land,  in  thin,  ragged  clothes,  with  the  smallest  amount 
of  ornament.  Along  the  sides  of  the  dull,  brown  mountains 
there  is  a  suspicion  of  verdure,  spotted  and  striped  here 
and  there  with  meagre  woods  of  birch  and  fir.  The  glory 
of  this  hard  region  is  its  coast :  a  wonderful  perplexity  of 
fiords,  bays  and  creeks,  islands,  peninsulas  and  capes, 
endlessly  picturesque,  and  very  often  magnificently  grand. 
Nothing  can  well  exceed  the  headlands  and  precipices. 


FNDLAND. — ST.    JOHNS. 

honey-combed,  shattered,  and  hollowed  out  into  vast  cav- 
erns, and  given  up  to  the  thunders  and  the  fury  of  the 
deep-sea  billows.  Kead  the  Pirate  of  Scott  again,  and 
Sumburg  Head  will  picture  for  you  numbers  of  heads,  of 
which  it  is  not  important  to  mention  the  name.  The 
brooks  that  flow  from  the  highlands,  and  fall  over  cliffs 
of  great  elevation  into  the  very  surf,  and  that  would  be 
counted  features  of  grandeur  in  some  countries,  are  bere 
the  merest  trifles,  a  kind  of  jewelry  on  the  hem  of  the 
landscape. 

The  harbor  of  St.  Johns  is  certainly  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  for  bold  and  effective  scenery  on  the  Atlantic 
shore.  The  pictures  of  it,  which  of  late  abound,  and  are 
quite  truthful  as  miniature  portraits,  fail  entirely  to  sug- 
gest the  grand  expression  and  strong  character  of  the 
coast.  We  were  moving  spiritedly  forward  over  a  bright 
and  lively  sea,  watching  the  stern  headlands  receding  in 
the  south,  and  starting  out  to  view  in  the  north,  when  we 
passed  Cape  Spear,  a  lofty  promontory,  crowned  with  a 
light-house  and  a  signal-shaft,  upon  which  was  floating  the 

^P  meteor-flag  of  England,  and  at  once  found  ourselves 
abreast  the  bay  in  front  of  St.  Johns.  Not  a  vestige, 
though,  of  any  thing  like  a  city  was  in  sight,  except  au- 

^fe    other  flag  flitting  on  a  distant  pinnacle  of  rock.     Like  a 


32  NEWFOUNDLAND. — 8T.    JOHNS. 

water  of  this  outer  bay,  into  which  the  full  power  of  the 
ocean  let  itself  under  every  wind  except  the  westerly. 
Eight  towards  the  coast  where  it  gathered  itself  up  into 
the  greatest  massiveness,  and  tied  itself  into  a  very  Gor- 
dian  knot,  we  cut  across,  curious  to  behold  when  and 
where  the  rugged  adamant  was  going  to  split  and  let  us 
through.  At  length  it  opened,  and  we  looked  through, 
and  presently  glided  through  a  kind  of  mountain-pass, 
with  all  the  lonely  grandeur  of  the  Franconia  Notch. 
Above  us,  and  close  above,  the  rugged,  brown  cliffs  rose 
to  a  fine  height,  armed  at  certain  points  with  cannon,  and 
before  us,  to  all  appearance,  opened  out  a  most  beautiful 
mountain  lake,  with  a  little  city  looking  down  from  the 
mountain  side,  and  a  swamp  of  shipping  along  its  shores. 
We  were  in  the  harbor,  and  before  St.  Johns.  As  we 
bade  adieu  to  the  sea,  and  hailed  the  land  with  our 
plucky  little  gun,  the  echoes  rolled  among  the  hills^  and 
rattled  along  the  rocky  galleries  of  the  mountains  in  the 
finest  style.  We  were  quite  delighted.  So  fresh  and 
novel  was  the  prospect,  so  unexpected  were  the  peculiar 
sentiment  and  character  of  the  scene,  one  could  hardly 
realize  that  it  was  old  to  the  experience  of  tens  of  thou- 
sands. I  could  scarcely  help  feeling,  there  was  stupidity 
somewhere,  that  more  had  not  been  said  about  what  had 
been  seen  by  so  many  for  so  long  a  time. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AN  ENGLISH  INN.-GOYEKNOE  AND  BISHOP.— SIGNAL  HILL. 

Wednesday,  June  22,  1859. — We  are  at  Warring- 
ton's, a  genuine  English  inn,  with  nice  rooms  and  a  home- 
like quiet,  where  the  finest  salmon,  with  other  luxuries, 
can  be  had  at  moderate  prices.  Every  thing  is  English 
hut  ourselves.  I  feel  that  the  Yankee  in  me  is  about  as 
prominent  as  the  bowsprit  of  the  Great  Republic,  the 
queen  ship  of  the  metropolis  of  yankeedom,  the  renowned 
port  from  which  we  sailed,  and  through  the  scholarly  air 
of  which  my  thoughts  wing  their  flight  home. 

Among  other  qualities  foremost  at  this  moment,  (and 
for  which  I  discover  the  Bull  family  is  certainly  pre-emi- 
nent,) is  appetite,  the  measure  of  which,  at  table,  is  time, 
not  quantity.  My  chief  solicitude  at  breakfast,  dinner, 
tea  and  supper,  is  not  so  much  about  what  I  am  to  eat, 

as  about  liow  I  shall  eat,  so  as  not  to  distinguish  myself. 
2* 


34  AN    ENGLISH   INN. 


who  is  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  immortals,  and  I, 


in  his  wake,  perhaps  as  his  private  chaplain,  may  be  re- 
garded as  representative  people  from  the  States.  We 
would,  therefore,  avoid  signalizing  ourselves  at  the 
trencher.  The  method  adopted  on  these  frequent  occa- 
sions, is  to  be  on  hand  early,  to  expend  small  energy  in 
useless  conversation,  and  to  retire  modestly,  though  late, 
from  the  entertainment.  It  is  surprising  how  well  we 
acquit  ourselves  without  exciting  admiration.  I  am 
hopeful  that  the  impression  in  the  house  is,  that  we  are 
small  eaters  and  talkers,  persons  slightly  diffident,  who 
eat  chiefly  in  order  to  live,  and  prosper  on  our  voyage. 
Under  this  cover,  it  is  wonderful  what  an  amount  of  spoil 
we  bear  away,  over  which  merriment  applauds  in  the 
privacy  of  our  rooms. 

When  the  gray  morning  light  stole  at  the  same  time 
into  my  chamber  and  my  dreams,  it  was  raining  heavily, 
a  seasonable  hindrance  to  early  excursions,  affording 
ample  time  to  arrange  those  plans  which  we  are  now  car- 
rying out.  In  company  with  Mr.  Newman,  our  consul, 
to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  unremitting  attentions  and 
hospitalities,  we  first  called  on  the  Bishop  of  JSTewfound- 
land. 

The  visitation  of  his  large  diocese,  which  embraces 
both  the  island  and  Labrador,  together  with  the  distant 


THE    GOVERNOR    AND    BISHOP.  35 

isle  of  Bermuda,  has  given  him  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  shores  and  ices  of  these  northern  seas.  An  hour's 
conversation,  illustrated  with  maps  and  drawings,  seems 
to  have  put  us  in  possession  of  nearly  all  the  facts  neces- 
sary in  order  to  a  pleasant  and  successful  expedition.  At 
the  close  of  our  interview,  during  which  the  Bishop 
informed  us  that  he  was  just  setting  off  upon  an  exten- 
sive coast  visitation,  he  very  kindly  invited  us  to  join  his 
party  for  the  summer,  and  take  our  passage  in  the  Hawk, 
his  "  Church  Ship/'  It  was  a  most  tempting  offer,  and 
would  have  been  accepted  with  delight  had  the  voyage 
been  shorter.  There  was  no  certainty  of  the  vessel's  re- 
turn before  September,  a  time  too  long  for  my  purposes. 
To  be  left  in  any  port,  in  those  out-of-the-way  waters, 
with  the  expectation  of  a  chance  return,  was  not  to  be 
thought  of  We  declined  the  generous  offer  of  the 
Bishop,  but  with  real  regret.  To  have  made  the  tour  of 
Newfoundland  and  Labrador,  with  a  Christian  gentleman 
and  scholar  so  accomplished,  would  have  been  a  privilege 
indeed.  From  the  house  of  the  Bishop,  a  neat  residence 
near  his  cathedral,  we  climbed  the  hill  upon  which  stands 
the  palace  of  the  Governor,  Sir  Alexander  Bannerman, 
commanding  a  fine  prospect  of  the  town  and  harbor,  the 
B  ocean  and  adjacent  country.  As  we  passed  up  the  broad 
H     avenue,  shaded  by  the  poplar,  birch  and  fir,  instead  of 


I 


36  SIGNAL    HILL. 

those  patricians  of  the  wood,  the  ma2)le,  oak  and  elm  ; 
the  flag,  waving  in  the  cool  sea-breeze,  and  the  brown- 
coated  soldier,  pacing  to  and  fro,  reminded  one  of  the 
presence  of  English  power.  His  Excellency,  a  stately 
and  venerable  man,  to  whom  we  had  come  purposely  to 
pay  our  respects,  received  us  in  a  spacious  room  with  an- 
tique furniture.  During  the  conversation,  he  expressed 
much  pleasure  that  a  painter  of  distinction  had  come  to 
visit  the  scenery  of  Newfoundland,  and  kindly  offered  such 
assistance  as  would  facilitate  sketching  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. A  soldier  should  watch  for  icebergs,  on  Signal 
Hill,  a  lofty  peak  that  overlooks  the  sea  ;  a  boat  should 
be  at  his  command,  the  moment  one  was  needed.  Upon 
leaving,  he  gave  us  for  perusal  Sir  Kichard  Bonnycastle's 
Newfoundland.  From  the  western  front  of  the  house,  we 
overlooked  a  broad  vale,  dotted  with  farmhouses,  and,  in 
its  June  dress  of  grass  and  dandelions,  quite  New-Eng- 
land-like. We  continued  our  walk  to  Quidy  Viddy,  a 
pretty  lake,  and  returned  in  time  to  call  upon  Mr.  Am- 
brose Shea,  Speaker  of  the  Assembly,  to  whom  C had 

letters  of  introduction. 

After  dinner  we  set  off  for  Signal  Hill,  the  grand 
observatory  of  the  country,  both  by  nature  and  art.  Be- 
fore we  were  half-way  up,  we  found  that  June  was  June, 
even  in  Newfoundland.     But  there  is  something  in  a 


SIGNAL   HILL. 


37 


mountain  ramble  that  pays  for  all  warmth  and  fatigue. 
Little  rills  rattled  by,  paths  wound  among  rocky  notches 
and  grassy  chasms,  and  led  out  to  dizzy  "  over-looks " 
and  "  short-offs."  The  town  with  its  thousand  smokes 
sat  in  a  kind  of  amphitheatre,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
spectacle  of  sails  and  colors  in  the  harbor.  Below  us 
were  the  fishing-flakes,  a  kind  of  thousand- legged  shelves, 
made  of  poles,  and  covered  with  spruce  boughs,  for  drying 
fish,  the  local  term  for  cod,  and  placed  like  terraces  or 
large  steps  one  above  another  on  the  rocky  slopes.  We 
struck  into  a  fine  military  road,  and  passed  spacious  stone 
barracks,  soldiers  and  soldiers'  families,  goats  and  little 
gardens. 

From  the  observatory,  situated  on  the  craggy  pinna- 
cle, both  the  rugged  interior  and  the  expanse  of  ocean 
were  before  us.  Far  oif  at  sea  a  cloud  of  canvas  was 
shining  in  the  afternoon  sun,  a  kind  of  golden  white, 
while  down  the  northern  coast,  distant  several  miles,  was 
an  iceberg.  It  was  glittering  in  the  sunshine  like  a 
mighty  crystal.  The  work  and  play  of  to-morrow  were 
resolved  upon  immediately,  and  we  descended  at  our 
leisure,  plucking  the  wild  flowers  among  the  moss  and 
herbage,  and  gazing  quietly  at  the  hues  and  features  of 
the  extended  prospect. 


CHAPTEK  X. 

THE  EIDE  TO  TOEBAY.— THE  LOST  SAILOE.— THE  NEWFOUND- 
LAND  DOG. 

Thuksday,  June  23.  We  were  stirring  betimes, 
making  preparations  for  our  first  venture  after  an  iceberg. 
Unluckily,  it  was  a  Komish  holiday,  and  every  vehicle  in 
town  seemed  to  be  busy  carrying  people  about,  by  the 
time  we  thought  it  necessary  to  engage  one  for  ourselves. 
We  succeeded  at  length  in  securing  a  hard- riding  wag- 
on, driven  by  a  young  Englishman,  and  were  soon  on 
our  way,  trundling  along  at  a  good  pace  over  the  smooth 
road  leading  from  St.  Johns  to  Torbay,  the  nearest  water 
to  our  berg,  and  distant  some  eight  or  nine  miles.  The 
morning  was  fine,  the  sunshine  cheering,  the  air  cool  and 
bracing,  and  all  went  promisingly.  The  adjacent  coun- 
try is  an  elevated  kind  of  barren,  clothed  with  brush- 
wood, spruce  and  birch,  crossed  by  numerous  little  trout 
brooks,  and  spotted  with  ponds  and  wet  meadows,  with 


THE    RIDE   TO    TORBAY. THE   LOST    SAILOR.  39 

here  and  there  a  lonely-looking  hut.  But  there  were  the 
songs  of  birds,  the  tinkling  of  cow-bells,  and  the  odor  of 
evergreens  and  flowers.  A  characteristic  of  the  coast  is 
its  elevation  above  the  country  lying  behind.  Instead  of 
descending,  the  lands  rise,  as  you  approach  the  ocean, 
into  craggy  domes,  walls  and  towers,  breaking  off  pre- 
cipitously, and  affording  from  the  eminences  of  our  road 
prospects  of  sparkling  sea.  Our  hearts  were  full  of  music, 
and  our  minds  and  conversation  were  a  kind  of  reflection  of 
the  solitary  scene.  For  months,  our  young  man  tells  us,  the 
snow  lies  so  deeply  along  this  fine  road  as  to  render  it  im- 
passable for  sleighs,  except  when  sufficiently  hard  to  bear 
a  horse.  The  snow-shoe  is  then  in  general  use.  One 
of  the  pests  of  early  summer  is  the  black  fly,  as  we  have 
already  experienced.  A  few  years  ago,  a  sailor  ran  away 
from  his  vessel,  at  St.  Johns,  and  took  to  these  bushy 
wilds,  in  which,  at  length,  he  got  lost,  and  finally  per- 
ished from  the  bites  of  this  pestilent  fly.  He  was  found 
accidentally,  and  in  a  state  of  insensibility,  being  covered 
with  them,  and  so  nearly"  devoured  that  he  died  within  a 
few  hours  after  his  discovery. 

Speaking  of  the  !N'ewfoundland  dog,  he  told  us  that 
one  of  pure,  original  blood,  was  scarcely  to  be  found.  I 
had  supposed,  and  had  good  reason  for  it,  from  what  I  had 
read  in  the  papers,  about  the  time  of  the  visit  to  St. 


40  THE   EIDE   TO   TORBAY. — THE   LOST   SAILOR. 

Johns,  upon  the  laying  of  the  Atlantic  Cable,  that  any 
person  could  for  a  small  sum  purchase  numbers  of  the 
finest  dogs.  I  think  a  certain  correspondent  of  some 
New  York  daily,  told  us  that  several  gentlemen  supplied 
themselves  with  these  animals  upon  their  departure.  If 
such  was  the  case,  then  they  took  away  with  them  about 
the  last  of  the  real  breed,  and  must  have  paid  for  them 
such  prices  as  they  would  not  like  to  own.  Scarcely  a 
splendid  dog  is  now  to  be  seen,  and  ^Ye,  ten,  and  everi 
twenty  pounds  sterling  might  be  refused  for  him.  We 
have  not  seen  the  first  animal  that  compares  with  those 
which  trot  up  and  down  Broadway  nearly  every  week ; 
and  they  are  not  the  pure-blooded  creature,  either,  by 
a  good  deal.  It  is  to  be  regretted,  that  dogs  of  such 
strength,  beauty  and  sagacity  should  have  been  permitted 
to  become  almost  extinct  in  their  native  country. 


CHAPTEK  XI. 

TOEBAT.— FLAKES  AND  FISH  -  HOUSES.— THE  FISHING  BAEGE.— THE 
CLIFFS.— THE  KETKEAT  TO  FLAT  KOCK  HAEBOE.— WILLIAM  WATEE- 
MAN,  THE  FISHEEMAN. 

ToRBAY,  finely  described  in  a  recent  novel  by  the  Rev. 
R.  T.  S.  Lowell,  is  an  arm  of  the  sea,  a  short,  strong  arm 

H  with  a  slim  hand  and  finger,  reaching  into  the  rocky  land, 
and  touching  the  waterfalls  and  rapids  of  a  pretty  brook. 
Here   is  a  little  village,  with   Eomich   and   Protestant 

K  steeples,  and  the  dwellings  of  fishermen,  with  the  uni- 
versal  appendages  of  fishing-house^,  boats  and  flakes. 
One  seldom  looks  upon  a  hamlet  so  picturesque  and 
wild.  The  rocks  slope  steeply  down  to  the  wonderfully 
clear  water.  Thousands  of  poles  support  half-acres  of  the 
spruce-bough  shelf,  beneath  which  is  a  dark,  cool  region, 

^H    crossed  with  footpaths,  and  not  unfrequently  sprinkled  and 


42  FLAKES    AND    FISH-HOUSES. 

the  sea,  you  will  allow,  when  once  you  have  scented  the 
fish-offal  perpetually  dropping  from  the  evergreen  fish- 
house  ahove.  These  little  buildings  on  the  flakes  are 
conspicuous  features,  and  look  as  fresh  and  wild  as  if 
they  had  just  wandered  away  from  the  woodlands. 

There  they  stand,  on  the  edge  of  the  lofty  pole-shelf, 
or  upon  the  extreme  end  of  that  part  of  it  which  runs  off 
frequently  over  the  water  like  a  wharf,  an  assemblage  of 
huts  and  halls,  bowers  and  arbors,  a  curious  huddle  made 
of  poles  and  sweet-smelling  branches  and  sheets  of  birch- 
bark.  A  kind  of  evening  haunts  these  rooms  of  spruce,  at 
noonday,  while  at  night  a  hanging  lamp,  like  those  we 
see  in  old  pictures  of  crypts  and  dungeons,  is  to  the 
stranger  only  a  kind  of  buoy  by  which  he  is  to  steer  his 
way  through  the  darkness.  To  come  off  then  without 
pitching  headlong,  and  soiling  your  hands  and  coat,  is  the 
merest  chance.  Strange  !  one  is  continually  allured  into 
these  piscatory  bowers  whenever  he  comes  near  them. 
In  spite  of  the  chilly,  salt  air,  and  the  repulsive  smells 
about  the  tables  where  they  dress  the  fish,  I  have  a  fancy 
for  these  queer  structures.  Their  front  door  opens  upon 
the  sea,  and  their  steps  are  a  mammoth  ladder,  leading 
down  to  the  swells  and  the  boats.  There  is  a  charm  also 
about  fine  fishes,  fresh  from  the  net  and  the  hook, — the 
salmon,  for  example,  whose  pink  and  yellow  flesh  has 


PISHING   BARGE. 

given  a  name  to  one  of  tlie  most  delicate  hues  of  Art  or 
Nature. 

But  where  was  the  iceberg  ?     We  were  not  a  little 
disappointed  when  all  Torhay  was  before  us,  and  nothing 

^^  but  dark  water  to  be  seen.  To  our  surprise^  no  one 
had  ever  seen  or  heard  of  it.  It  must  lie  off  'Flat  Kock 
Harbor,  a  little  bay  below,  to  the  north.     We  agreed 

^  with  the  supposition  that  the  berg  must  lie  below,  and 

B  made  speedy  preparations  to  pursue,  by  securing  the  only 
boat  to  be  had  in  the  village, — a  "substantial  fishing- 
barge,  laden  rather  heavily  in  the  stern  with  at  least  a 

^g  cord  of  cod-seine,  but  manned  by  six  stalwart  men,  a  mo- 
tive power,  as  it  turned  out,  none  too  large  for  the  occa- 
sion. We  embarked  at  the  foot  of  a  fish-house  ladder, 
being  carefully  handed  down  by  the  kind-hearted  men, 

K  and  took  our  seats  forward  on  the  little  bow-deck.  All 
ready,  they  pulled  away  at  their  long,  ponderous  oars, 
with  the  skill  and  deliberation  of  life-long  practice,  and 
we  moved  out  upon  the  broad,  glassy  swells  of  the  bay 
towards  the  open  sea,  not  indeed  with  the  rapidity  of  a 
Yankee  club-boat,  but  with  a  most  agreeable  steadiness, 
and  a  speed  happily  fitted  for  a  review  of  the  shores, 

f  which,  under  the  afternoon  sun,  were  made  brilliant  with 
lights  and  shadows. 

We  were  presently  met  by  a  breeze,  which  increased 


44  THE    CLIFFS. 

the  swell,  and  made  it  easier  to  fall  in  close  under  the 
northern  shore,  a  line  of  stupendous  precipices,  to  which 
the  ocean  goes  deep  home.  The  ride  beneath  these 
mighty  cliffs  was  by  far  the  finest  boat-ride  of  my  life. 
While  they  do  not  eq[ual  the  rocks  of  the  Saguenay,  yet, 
with  all  their  appendages  of  extent,  structure,  complex- 
ion and  adjacent  sea,  they  are  sufficiently  lofty  to  pro- 
duce an  almost  appalling  sense  of  sublimity.  The  surges 
lave  them  at  a  great  height,  sliding  from  angle  to  angle, 
and  fretting  into  foam  as  they  slip  obliquely  along  the 
face  of  the  vast  walls.  They  descend  as  deeply  as  two 
hundred  feet,  and  rise  perpendicularly  two,  three,  and 
four  hundred  feet  from  the  water.  Their  stratifications 
are  up  and  down,  and  of  different  shades  of  light  and 
dark,  a  ribbed  and  striped  appearance  that  increases  the 
the  effect  of  height,  and  gives  variety  and  spirit  to  the 
surface. 

At  one  point,  where  the  rocks  advance  from  the 
main  front,  and  form  a  kind  of  headland,  the  strata,  six 
and  eight  feet  thick,  assume  the  form  of  a  pyramid,  from 
a  broad  base  of  a  hundred  yards  or  more  running  up  to 
meet  in  a  point.  The  heart  of  this  vast  cone  has  partly 
fallen  out,  and  left  the  resemblance  of  an  enormous  tent 
with  cavernous  recesses  and  halls,  in  which  the  shades  of 
evening  were  already  lurking,  and  the  surf  was  sounding 


mournfully. .  Occasionally  it  was  musical,  pealing  forth 
like  the  low  tones  of  a  great  organ  with  awful  solemnity. 
Now  and  then,  the  gloomy  silence  of  a  minute  was 
broken  by  the  crash  of  a  billow  far  within,  when  the  re- 
verberations were  like  the  slamming  of  great  doors. 

After  passing  this  grand  specimen  of  the  architecture 
of  the  sea,  there  appeared  long  rocky  reaches,  like  Egyp- 
tian temples,  old  dead  cliffs  of  yellowish  gray,  checked 
off  by  lines  and  seams  into  squares,  and  having  the  re- 
semblance, where  they  have  fallen  out  into  the  ocean,  of 
doors  and  windows  opening  in  upon  the  fresher  stone. 
Presently  we  came  to  a  break,  where  there  were  grassy 
slopes  and  crags  intermingled,  and  a  flock  of  goats  skip- 
ping about,  or  ruminating  in  the  warm  sunshine.  A 
knot  of  kids — the  reckless  little  creatures  ! — were  sport- 
ing along  the  edge  of  the  precipice  in  a  manner  almost 
painful  to  witness.  The  pleasure  of  leaping  from  point 
to  point,  where  a  single  mis-step  would  have  dropped 
them  hundreds  of  feet,  seemed  to  be  in  proportion  to  the 
danger.  The  sight  of  some  women,  who  were  after  the 
goats,  reminded  the  boatmen  of  an  accident  which  oc- 
curred here  only  a  few  days  before  :  a  lad  playing  about 
the  steep,  fell  into  the  sea,  and  was  drowned. 

We  were  now  close  upon  the  point  just  behind  which 
we  expected  to  behold  the  iceberg.     The  surf  was  sweep- 


46  RETREAT    TO    FLAT    ROCK    HARBOR. 

ing  the  black  reef,  that  flanked  the  small  cape,  in  the 
finest  style, — a  beautiful  dance  of  breakers  of  dazzling 
white  and  green.  As  every  stroke  of  the  oars  shot  us 
forward,  and  enlarged  our  view  of  the  field  in  which  the 
ice  was  reposing,  our  hearts  fairly  throbbed  with  an  ex- 
citement of  expectation.  "  There  it  is  !  "  one  exclaimed. 
An  instant  revealed  the  mistake.  It  was  only  the  next 
headland  in  a  fog,  which  unwelcome  mist  was  now  coming 
down  upon  us  from  the  broad  waters,  and  covering  the 
very  tract  where  the  berg  was  expected  to  be  seen.  Fur- 
ther and  further  out  the  long,  strong  sweep  of  the  great 
oars  carried  us,  until  the  depth  of  the  bay  between  us 
and  the  next  headland  was  in  full  view.  It  may  appear 
almost  too  trifling  a  matter  over  which  to  have  had  any 
feeling  worth  mentioning  or  remembering,  but  I  shall  not 
soon  forget  the  disappointment,  when  from  the  deck  of 
our  barge,  as  it  rose  and  sank  on  the  large  swells,  we 
stood  up  and  looked  around,  and  saw  that  if  the  ice- 
berg, over  which  our  very  hearts  had  been  beating  with 
delight  for  twenty-four  hours,  was  anywhere,  it  was  some- 
where in  the  depths  of  that  untoward  fog.  It  might  as 
well  have  been  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean. 

While  the  pale  cloud  slept  there,  there  was  nothing 
left  for  us  but  to  wait  patiently  where  we  were,  or  retreat. 
We  chose  the  latter.     0 gave  the  word  to  pull  for  the 


I 


I 


RETREAT    TO    FLAT    ROCK    HARBOR. 

settlement,  at  the  head  of  the  little  bay  just  mentioned, 
and  SO  they  rounded  the  breakers  on  the  reef,  and  we 
turned  away  for  the  second  time,  when  the  game,  as  we 
had  thought,  was  fairly  ours.  Even  the  hardy  fishermen, 
no  lovers  of  "  islands-of-ice,"  as  they  call  the  bergs,  felt 
for  us,  as  they  read  in  our  looks  the  disappointment,  not 
to  say  a  little  vexation.  While  on  our  passage  in,  we 
filled  a  half-hour  with  questions  and  discussions  about 
that  iceberg. 

"  We  certainly  saw  it  yesterday  evening  ;  and  a  sol- 
dier of  Signal  Hill  told  us  that  it  had  been  close  in  at 
Torbay  for  several  days.  And  you,  my  man  there,  say 
that  you  had  a  glimpse  of  it  last  evening.  How  hap- 
pens it  to  be  away  just  now  ?  Where  do  you  think 
it  is  ?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  he  must  be  out  in  the  fog,  a  mile  or 
over.  ^  De'il  a  bit  can  a  man  look  after  a  thing  in  a  fog 
more  nor  into  a  snow-bank.  Maybe,  sir,  he's  foundered  ; 
or  he  might  be  gone  off  to  sea  altogether,  as  they  some- 
times does." 

"Well,  this  is  rather  remarkable.  Huge  as  these 
bergs  are,  they  escape  very  easily  under  their  old  cover. 
No  sooner  do  we  think  we  have  them,  than  they  are  gone. 
No  jackal  was  ever  more  faithful  to  his  lion,  no  pilot-fish 
to  his  shark,  than  the  fosr  to  its  ber£>:.     We  will  run  in 


48  WILLIAM   WATEKMAF^ 

yonder  and  inquire  about  it.  We  may  get  the  exact 
bearing,  and  reach  it  yet,  even  in  the  fog/' 

The  wind  and  sea  being  in  our  favor,  we  soon  reached 
a  fishery-ladder,  which  we  now  knew  very  well  how  to 
climb,  and  wound  our  "  dim  and  perilous  way  "  through 
the  evergreen  labyrinth  of  fish-bowers,  emerging  on  the 
solid  rock,  and  taking  the  path  to  the  fisherman's  house. 
Here  lives  and  works  and  wears  himself  out,  William 
Waterman,  a  deep-voiced,  broad-chested,  round-shoul- 
dered wight,  dressed,  not  in  cloth  of  gold,  but  of  oil,  with 
the  foxy  remnant  of  a  last  winter's  fur  cap  clinging  to  his 
large,  bony  head,  a  little  in  the  style  of  a  piece  of  turf  to 
a  stone.  You  seldom  look  into  a  more  kindly,  patient 
face,  or  into  an  eye  that  more  directly  lets  up  the  light 
out  of  a  large,  warm  heart.  His  countenance  is  one  sober 
shadow  of  honest  brown,  occasionally  lighted  by  a  true 
and  guileless  smile.  William  Waterman  has  seen  the 
" island-of-ice."  "It  lies  off  there,  two  miles  or  more, 
grounded  on  a  bank,  in  forty  fathoms  water." 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock ;  and  yet,  as  there  were 
signs  of  the  fog  clearing  away,  we  thought  it  prudent  to 
wait.  A  duU,  long  hour  passed  by,  and  still  the  sun  was 
high  in  the  north-west.  That  heavy  cod- seine,  a  hundred 
fathoms  long,  sank  the  stern  of  our  barge  rather  deeply, 
and  made  it  row  heavily.     For  all  that,  there  was  time 


THE    FISHERMAN. 


enough  yet,  if  we  could  only  use  it.     The  fog  still  came 

^fe  in  masses  from  the  sea,  sweeping  across  the  promontory 
between  us  and  Torbay,  and  fading  into  air  nearly  as  soon 

H  as  it  was  over  the  land.  In  the  mean  time,  we  sa^t  upon 
the  rocks — upon  the  wood-pile — stood  around  and  talked 

H  — looked  out  into  the  endless  mist — looked  at  the  fisher- 
men's  houses — their  children — their  fowls  and  dogs.  A 
couple  of  young  women,  that  might  have  been  teachers 
of  the  village  school,  had  there  been  a  school,  belles  of 
the  place,  rather  neatly  dressed,  and  with  hair  nicely 
combed,  tripped  shyly  by,  each  with  an  arm  about  the 
other's  waist,  and  very  merry  until  abreast  of  us,  when 
they  were  as  silent  and  downcast  as  if  they  had  been 
j)assing  by  their  sovereign  queen,  or  the  Great  Mogul. 
Their  curiosity  and  timidity  combined  were  quite  amus- 
ing. We  speculated  upon  the  astonishment  that  would 
have  seized  upon  their  simple,  innocent  hearts,  had  they 
beheld,  instead  of  us,  a  bevy  of  our  city  fashionables  in 

^    full  bloom. 

H  At  length  we  accepted  an  invitation  to  walk  into  the 
house,  and  sat,  not  under  the  good-man's  roof,  but  under 
his  chimney,  a  species  of  large  funnel,  into  which  nearly 

I  one  end  of  the  house  resolved  itself.  Here  we  sat  upon 
some  box-Hke  benches  before  a  wood  fire,  and  warmed 
ourselves,   chatting  with   the   family.      While   we  were 


50  THE    FISHERMAN. 

making  ourselves  comfortable  and  agreeable,  we  made  the 
novel,  and  rather  funny  discovery  of  a  hen  sitting  on  her 
nest  just  under  the  bench,  with  her  red  comb  at  our 
fingers'  ends.  A  large  griddle  hung  suspended  in  the 
more  smoky  regions  of  the  chimney,  ready  to  be  lowered 
for  the  baking  of  cakes  or  frying  fish.  Having  tarred  my 
hand,  the  fisherman's  wife,  kind  woman,  insisted  upon 
washing  it  herself  After  rubbing  it  with  a  little  grease, 
she  first  scratched  it  with  her  finger-nail,  and  then  fin- 
ished with  soap  and  water  and  a  good  wiping  with  a 
a  coarse  towel.  I  begged  that  she  would  spare  herself 
the  trouble,  and  allow  me  to  help  myself.  But  it  was  no 
trouble  at  all  for  her,  and  the  greatest  pleasure.  And 
what  should  I  know  about  washing  off  tar  ? 

They  were  members  of  the  Church  of  England,  and 
seemed  pleased  when  they  found  that  I  was  a  clergyman 
of  the  Episcopal  Church.  They  had  a  pastor,  who  visited 
them  and  others  in  the  village  occasionally,  and  held 
divine  service  on  Sunday  at  Torbay,  where  they  attended, 
going  in  boats  in  summer,  and  over  the  hills  on  snow- 
shoes  in  the  winter.  The  woman  told  me,  in  an  under- 
tone, that  the  family  relations  were  not  all  agreed  in 
their  religious  faith,  and  that  they  could  not  stop  there 
any  longer,  but  had  gone  to  "  America,"  which  they  liked 
much  better.     It  was  a  hard  country,  any  way,  no  mat- 


THE    FISHERMAN. 


51 


I 


ter  whether  one  were  Protestant  or  Papist.  Three 
months  were  all  their  summer,  and  nearly  all  their  time 
for  getting  ready  for  the  long,  cold  winter.  To  be  sure, 
they  had  codfish  and  potatoes,  flour  and  butter,  tea  and 
sugar ;  but  then  it  took  a  deal  of  hard  work  to  make 
ends  meet.  The  winter  was  not  as  cold  as  we  thought, 
perhaps ;  but  then  it  was  so  long  and  snowy  !  The 
snow  lay  ^ve,  six,  and  seven  feet  deep.  Wood  was  a 
great  trouble.  There  was  a  plenty  of  it,  but  they  could 
not  keep  cattle  or  horses  to  draw  it  home.  Dogs  were 
their  only  teams,  and  they  could  fetch  but  small  loads  at 
a  time.  In  the  mean  while,  a  chubby  little  boy,  with 
cheeks  like  a  red  apple,  had  ventured  from  behind  his 
young  mother,  where  he  had  kept  dodging  as  she  moved 
about  the  house,  and  edged  himself  up  near  enough  to  be 
patted  on  the  head,  and  rewarded  for  his  little  liberties 
with  a  half-dime. 


CHAPTEK  XII. 

THE  WHALES.--TnE  ICEBEEG.— THE  RETURN,  AND  THE  EIDE  TO 
St.  JOHNS  BY  STARLIGHT. 

The  STinsliine  was  now  streaming  in  at  a  bit  of  a  win- 
dow, and  I  went  out  to  see  what  prospect  of  success. 

C ,  who  had  left  some  little  time  before,  was  nowhere 

to  be  seen.  The  fog  seemed  to  be  in  sufficient  motion  to 
disclose  the  berg  down  some  of  the  avenues  of  clear  air  that 
were  opened  occasionally.  They  all  ended,  however,  with 
fog  instead  of  ice.  I  made  it  convenient  to  walk  to  the 
boat,  and  pocket  a  few  cakes,  brought  along  as  a  kind  of 

scattering  lunch.    C was  descried,  at  length,  climbing 

the  broad,  rocky  ridge  the  eastern  point  of  which  we  had 
doubled  on  our  passage  from  Torbay.  Making  haste  up 
the  crags  by  a  short  cut,  I  joined  him  on  the  verge  of  the 
promontory,  pretty  well  heated  and  out  of  breath. 

The  effort  was  richly  rewarded.     The  mist  was  dis- 


THE   WHALES.  ^^^^  53 

persing  in  the  sunny  air  around  us  ;  the  ocean  was  clear- 
ing off ;  the  surge  was  breaking  with  a  pleasant  sound 
below.  At  the  foot  of  the  precipice  were  four  or  five 
whales,  from  thirty  to  fifty  feet  in  length,  apparently. 
We  could  have  tossed  a  pebble  upon  them.  At  times 
abreast,  and  then  in  single  file,  round  and  round  they 
went,  now  rising  with  a  puff  followed  by  a  wisp  of  vapor, 
then  plunging  into  the  deep  again.  There  was  something 
in  their  large  movements  very  imposing,  and  yet  very 
graceless.  There  seemed  to  be  no  muscular  effort,  no 
exertion  of  any  force  from  within,  and  no  more  flexibility 
in  their  motions  than  if  they  had  been  built  of  timber. 
They  appeared  to  move  very  much  as  a  wooden  whale 
might  be  supposed  to  move  down  a  mighty  rapid,  rolling 
and  plunging  and  borne  along  irresistibly  by  the  current. 
As  they  rose,  we  could  see  their  mouths  occasionally,  and 
the  lighter  colors  of  the  skin  below.  As  they  went  un- 
der, their  huge,  black  tails,  great  winged  things  not  un- 
like the  screw-wheel  of  a  propeller,  tipped  up  above  the 
waves.  Now  and  then  one  would  give  the  water  a  good 
round  slap,  the  noise  of  which  smote  sharply  upon  the 
ear,  like  the  crack  of  a  pistol  in  an  alley.  It  was  a  novel 
sight  to  watch  them  in  their  play,  or  labor  rather ;  for 
they  were  feeding  upon  the  capelin,  pretty  little  fishes 
that  swarm  along  these  shores  at  this  particular  season. 


54  THE   ICEBEKG. 

We  could  track  them  beneath  the  surface  about  as  well 
as  upon  it.  In  the  sunshine,  and  in  contrast  with  the 
fog,  the  sea  was  a  very  dark  blue  or  deep  purple.  Above 
the  whales  the  water  was  green,  a  darker  green  as  they 
descended,  a  lighter  green  as  they  came  up.  Large  oval 
spots  of  changeable  green  water,  moving  silently  and 
shadow-like  along,  in  strong  contrast  with  the  surround- 
ing dark,  marked  the  places  where  the  monsters  were 
gliding  below.  When  their  broad,  blackish  backs  were 
above  the  waves,  there  was  frequently  a  ring  or  ruffle  of 
snowy  surf,  formed  by  the  breaking  of  the  swell,  around 
the  edges  of  the  fish.  The  review  of  whales,  the  only  re- 
view we  had  witnessed  in  Her  Majesty's  dominions,  was, 
on  the  whole,  an  imposing  spectacle.  We  turned  from 
it  to  witness  another,  of  a  more  brilliant  character. 

To  the  north  and  east,  the  ocean,  dark  and  sparkling, 
was,  by  the  magic  action  of  the  wind,  entirely  clear  of 
fog ;  and  there,  about  two  miles  distant,  stood  revealed 
the  iceberg  in  all  its  cold  and  solitary  glory.  It  was  of  a 
greenish  white,  and  of  the  Greek- temple  form,  seeming 
to  be  over  a  hundred  feet  high.  We  gazed  some  minutes 
with  silent  delight  on  the  splendid  and  impressive  object, 
and  then  hastened  down  to  the  boat,  and  pulled  away 
with  an  speed  to  reach  it,  if  possible,  before  the  fog  should 
cover  it  again,  and  in  time  for  C to  paint  it.     The 


THE    ICEBERG. 


55 


moderation  of  the  oarsmen  and  the  slowness  of  our  progress 
were  quite  provoking.  I  watched  the  sun,  the  distant 
fog,  the  wind  and  waves,  the  increasing  motion  of  the 
boat,  and  the  seemingly  retreating  berg.  A  good  half- 
hour's  toil  had  carried  us  into  broad  waters,  and  yet,  to 
all  appearance,  very  little  nearer.  The  wind  was  freshen- 
ing from  the  south,  the  sea  was  rising,  thin  mists — a 
species  of  scout  from  the  main  body  of  fog  lying  off  in  the 
east— were  scudding  across  our  track.  James  Goss,  our 
captain,  threw  out  a  hint  of  a  little  difficulty  in  getting 
back.  But  Yankee  energy  was  indomitable  :  C quiet- 
ly arranged  his  painting-apparatus  ;  and  I,  wrapped  in  my 
cloak  more  snugly,  crept  out  forward  on  the  little  deck, — a 
sort  of  look-out.  To  be  honest,  I  began  to  wish  ourselves 
on  our  way  back,  as  the  black,  angry-looking  swells 
chased  us  up,  and  flung  the  foam  upon  the  bow  and 
stern.  All  at  once,  huge  squadrons  of  fog  swept  in,  and 
swamped  the  whole  of  us,  boat  and  berg,  in  their  thin, 
white  obscurity.  For  a  moment  we  thought  ourselves 
foiled  again.  But  still  the  word  was  On  !  And  on 
they  pulled,  the  hard-handed  fishermen,  now  flushed 
and  moist  with  rowing.  Again  the  ice  was  visible,  but 
dimly,  in  his  misty  drapery.     There  was  no  time  to  be  lost. 

Now,  or  not  at  all.     And  so  C began.     For  half  an 

hour,  pausing  occasionally  for  passing  flocks  of  fog,  he 


56  THE   ICEBERG. 

plied  the  brash  with  a  rapidity  not  usual,  and  under  disad- 
vantages that  would  have  mastered  a  less  experienced  hand. 

We  were  getting  close  down  upon  the  berg,  and 
in  fearfully  rough  water.  In  their  curiosity  to  catch 
glimpses  of  the  advancing  sketch,  the  men  pulled  with 
little  regularity,  and  trimmed  the  boat  veiy  badly.     We 

were  rolHng  frightfully  to  a  landsman.     C begged  of 

them  to  keep  their  seats,  and  hold  the  barge  just  there  as 
near  as  possible.  To  amuse  them,  I  passed  an  opera- 
glass  around  among  them,  with  which  they  examined  the 
iceberg  and  the  coast.  They  turned  out  to  be  excellent 
good  fellows,  and  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  in  a 
way  that  pleased  us.     I  am  sure  they  would  have  held  on 

willingly  till  dark,  if :  G had  only   said  the  word, 

so  much  interest  did  they  feel  in  the  attempt  to  paint 
the  "  island-of-ice."  The  hope  was  to  linger  about  it 
until  sunset,  for  its  colors,  lights  and  shadows.  That, 
however,  was  suddenly  extinguished.  Heavy  fog  came 
on,  and  we  retreated,  not  with  the  satisfaction  of  a  con- 
quest, nor  with  the  disappointment  of  a  defeat,  but 
cheered  with  the  hope  of  complete  success,  perhaps  the 

next  day,  when  C thought  that  we  could  return  upon 

our  game  in  a  little  steamer,  and  so  secure  it  beyond  the 
possibility  of  escape. 

The  seine  was  now  hauled  from  the  stem  to  the  cen- 


THE  am 


tre  of  the  barge  ;  and  the  men  puUed  away  for  Torbay^  a 
long  six  miles,  rough  and  chilly.  For  my  part,  I  was 
trembling  with  cold,  and  found  it  necessary  to  lend  a 
hand  at  the  oars,  an  exercise  which  soon  made  the 
weather  feel  several  degrees  warmer,  and  rendered  me 
quite  comfortable.  After  a  little,  the  wind  lulled,  the 
fog  dispersed  again,  and  the  iceberg  seemed  to  contem- 
plate our  slow  departure  with  complacent  serenity.  We 
regretted  that  the  hour  forbade  a  return.  It  would  have 
been  pleasant  to  play  around  that  Parthenon  of  the  sea 
in  the  twilight.  The  best  that  was  left  us,  was  to  look 
back  and  watch  the  effects  of  light,  which  were  wonder- 
fully fine,  and  had  the  charm  of  entire  novelty.  The 
last  view  was  the  very  finest.  All  the  east  front  was  a 
most  tender  blue  ;  the  fissures  on  the  southern  face,  from 
which  we  were  rowing  directly  away,  were  glittering 
green  ;  the  western  front  glowed  in  the  yellow  sunlight  ; 
around  were  the  dark  waters,  and  above,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  skies. 

We  fell  under  the  land  presently,  and  passed  near  the 
northern  cape  of  Flat-Rock  Bay,  a  grand  headland  of  red 
sandstone,  a  vast  and  dome-like  pile,  fleeced  at  the  sum- 
mit with  green  turf  and  shrubs  of  fir.  The  sun,  at  last, 
was   really  setting.     There  was  the  old  magnificence  of 

the  king  of  day, — airy  deeps  of  ineffable  blue  and  pearl, 
3* 


58  THE   KETUEN. 

stained  with  scarlets  and  crimsons^  and  striped  with 
living  gold.  A  blaze  of  white  light,  deepening  into  the 
richest  orange,  crowned  the  distant  ridge  behind  which 
the  sun  was  vanishing.  A  vapory  splendoar,  rose-color 
and  purple,  was  dissolving  in  the  atmosphere  ;  and  every 
wave  of  the  ocean,  a  dark  violet,  nearly  black,  was  "  a 
flash  of  golden  fire."  Bathed  with  this  almost  supernatu- 
ral glory,  the  headland,  in  itself  richly  complexioned  with 
red,  brown  and  green,  was  at  once  a  spectacle  of  singular 
grandeur  and  solemnity.  I  have  no  remembrance  of  more 
brilliant  effects  of  light  and  color.  The  view  filled  us 
with  emotions  of  delight.  We  shot  from  beneath  the 
great  cliff  into  Flat-Kock  Bay,  rounding,  at  length,  the 
breakers  and  the  cape  into  the  smoother  waters  of  Tor- 
bay.  As  the  oars  dipped  regularly  into  the  polished 
swells,  reflecting  the  heavens  and  the  wonderful  shores, 
all  lapsed  into  silence.  In  the  gloom  of  evening  the 
rocks  assumed  an  unusual  height  and  sublimity.  Gliding 
quietly  below  them,  we  were  saluted,  every  now  and  then, 
by  the  billows  thundering  in  some  adjacent  cavern.  The 
song  of  the  sea  in  its  old  halls  rung  out  in  a  style  quite 
unearthly.  The  slamming  of  the  mighty  doors  seemed 
far  off  in  the  chambers  of  the  cliff,  and  the  echoes  trem- 
bled themselves  away,  mujaied  into  stillness  by  the 
stupendous  masses. 


^^m        THE    EIDE    TO    ST.    JOHNS   BY    STARLIGHT.  59 

Thus  ended  our  first  real  hunting  of  an  iceberg. 
When  we  landed,  we  were  thoroughly  chilled.  Our  man 
was  waiting  with  his  wagon,  and  so  was  a  little  supper  in 
a  house  near  by,  which  we  enjoyed  with  an  appetite  that 
assumed  several  phases  of  keenness  as  we  proceeded. 
There  was  a  tower  of  cold  roast  beef,  flanked  by  bread 
and  butter  and  bowls  of  hot  tea.  The  whole  was  carried 
silently,  without  remark,  at  the  point  of  knife  and  fork. 
We  were  a  forlorn-hope  of  two,  and  fell  to,  winning  the 
victory  in  the  very  breach.  We  drove  back  over  the  fine 
gravel  road  at  a  round  trot,  watching  the  last  edge  of 
day  in  the  north-west  and  north,  where  it  no  sooner  fades 
than  it  buds  again  to  bloom  into  morning.  We  lived  the 
new  iceberg  experience  all  over  again,  and  planned  for 
the  morrow.  The  stars  gradually  came  out  of  the  cool, 
clear  heavens,  until  they  filled  them  with  their  sparkling 
multitudes.  For  every  star  we  seemed  to  have  a  lively 
and  pleasurable  thought,  which  came  out  and  ran  among 
our  talk,  a  thread  of  light.  When  we  looked  at  the 
hour,  as  we  sat  fresh  and  wakeful,  warming  at  our  Eng- 
lish inn,  in  St.  Johns,  it  was  after  midnight. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

ST.   MARY'S  CIIUECII.— THE  RIDE  TO  PETTY  HARBOK. 

Friday,  June  24.  Daylight,  with  the  street  noises, 
surprised  me  in  the  very  midst  of  the  sweetest  slumbers. 
I  had  already  learned  that  the  summer  daybreak,  in  these 
more  northern  latitudes,  was  far  enough  ahead  of  breakfast, 
and  so  I  flattered  myself  back  into  one  of  those  light  and 
dreamy  sleeps  that  last,  or  seem  to  last,  for  several  long 
and  pleasant  hours.  "When  the  bell  aroused  me,  the 
day  appeared  old  and  glittering  enough  for  noon.  But  it 
was  only  in  good  time  for  us,  a  little  worn  with  the  ex- 
citement and  toils  of  the  day  before,  and  in  trini  to  enjoy 
a  good  solid  breakfast.  All  thought  of  revisiting  the  ice- 
berg of  Torbay  was  postponed,  at  least  for  the  present, 
and  the  day  given  up  to  previous  invitations. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  I  attended  the  consecration  of  St. 
Mary's,  a  fine  new  church  on  the  South  Side,  as  the  street 


MARY'S   CHURCH.  61 

on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  harbor  is  called.  As  I 
walked  across  the  bridge,  conducting  to  that  side,  the 
sacred  edifice,  together  with  other  buildings  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, adorned  with  numerous  English  flags,  presented, 
in  contrast  with  the  craggy  mountain  above,  a  lively  and 
picturesque  appearance.  I  may  mention,  by  the  way,  that 
St.  Johns  might  well  be  denominated  the  city  of  flags. 
They  are  flying  everywhere  thick  as  butterflies  and  pop- 
pies in  a  Yankee  garden. 

I  was  made  acquainted  with  a  number  of  clergymen, 
some  of  them  Cambridge  and  Oxford  men,  and  invited  to 
take  a  part  in  the  services.  The  sermon,  preached  by 
Archdeacon  Lower,  was  remarkable  for  its  plainness,  sim- 
plicity and  earnestness,  a  characteristic  of  all  the  sermons 
I  have  heard  from  the  clergy  of  Bishop  Field,  himself  a 
preacher  of  singular  simplicity  and  earnestness.  I  could 
not  avoid  drawing  the  contrast  between  the  simple,  prac- 
tical character  of  this  gospel  preaching  by  accomplished 
scholars,  and  the  florid,  pompous  style  of  many  half- 
educated  men  in  my  own  country.  While  the  latter  may, 
at  times,  stir  a  popular  audience  more  sensibly  with  the 
fire  that  crackles  among  their  brushwood  of  words,  the 
former  are  infinitely  superior  as  sound,  healthy,  evan- 
gehcal  teachers. 

On  my  return  to  the  inn,  I  found  C in  his  room, 


62  THE  RIDE  TO  PETTY  HARBOR. 


^ 


busily  painting  a  duplicate  of  the  berg  of  Torbay.  Soon 
after  dinner  we  set  off,  in  company  with  Mr.  Shea,  for 
Petty  Harbor,  a  small  fishing  port,  nine  or  ten  miles  to 
the  south.  The  road — one  of  the  finest  I  ever  saw,  an  old- 
fashioned  English  gravel  road,  smooth  and  hard  almost  as 
iron,  a  very  luxury  for  the  wheels  of  a  springless  wagon — 
keeps  up  the  bank  of  a  small  river,  a  good-sized  trout 
stream,  flowing  from  the  inland  valley  into  the  harbor  of 
St.  Johns.  Contrasted  with  the  bold  regions  that  front 
the  ocean,  these  valleys  are  soft  and  fertile.  We  passed 
smooth  meadows,  and  sloping  plough-lands,  and  green 
pastures,  and  houses  peeping  out  of  pretty  groves.  One 
might  have  called  it  a  Canadian  or  New  Hampshire  vale. 
At  no  great  distance  from  the  town,  we  crossed  the 
stream  over  such  a  bridge  as  one  would  be  glad  to  find 
more  frequently  upon  the  streams  at  home,  and  gradually 
ascended  to  a  shrubby,  sterile  country,  with  broad  views 
inland. 

From  the  long,  low  hills  of  the  western  horizon,  at  no 
great  distance,  Mr.  Shea  informed  us  that  there  were 
prospects  of  Trinity  Bay,  of  great  beauty.  Our  road,  at 
length,  carried  us  up  among  the  bleak  coast  hills,  winding 
among  them  in  a  most  agreeable  manner,  and  bringing  to 
view  numbers  of  small  lakes,  liquid  gems  set  in  black  and 
craggy  banks,  and  which  are  all  to  be  united  by  cuttings 


THE  EIDE  TO  PETTY  HARBOR. 


63 


through  the  rocks,  and  then  conducted  to  St.  Johns,  thus 
forming  one  of  the  completest  reservoirs. 

The  flowers  by  the  wayside,  mostly  small  and  pale, 
touched  the  air  with  delicate  perfume.  I  looked  for  the 
bees,  but  there  were  none  abroad  ;  neither  was  there  to  be 
heard  the  hum  of  insects  nor  warbling  of  birds.  Now  and 
then  a  lonely  bird  piped  a  feeble  strain.  We  continued 
winding  among  the  thinly- wooded  hills,  our  wheels  ringing 
along  the  narrow  gravel  road  for  an  hour.  At  last  we 
reached  the  height  of  land,  and  overlooked  the  ocean. 
Here  we  rested  a  few  moments,  rose  from  the  seats,  and 
looked  around  upon  the  majestic  scene.  Far  out  upon 
the  blue  were  many  sails,  white  in  the  bright  sun^ine  as 
the  wings  of  doves.  The  fishing  boats,  little  schooners 
with  raking  masts,  which  swarm  in  these  seas,  were  scud- 
ding under  their  tan-colored  canvas,  in  all  directions, 
looking  like  so  many  winged  flies  far  down  upon  the 
spangled  plain,  a  most  lively  and  agreeable  contrast  to 
the  desolate  highlands,  where  you  behold  no  dwelling,  or 
field,  or  sign  of  human  work,  except  the  road,  which,  I 
cannot  help  repeating,  lies  among  the  rough  hills,  and 
rocky  masses,  as  cleanly  cut,  and  smooth  as  a  road  in  a 
gentleman's  park.  What  a  token  of  greatness  and  refine- 
ment is  the  perfect  road  !  No  nation  makes  such  roads 
as  these,  in  a  land  bristling  with  rugged  difficulties,  that 


64  THE   RIDE   TO   PETTY    HARBOK. 

has  not  wound  its  way  up  to  the  summit  of  power  and 
cultivation.  The  savage  contents  himself  with  a  path 
that  is  engineered  and  beaten  by  the  wild  beast. 

The  praise  which  an  American,  used  to  the  rough 
roads  of  home,  is  continually  disposed  to  lavish  upon 
these  admirable  EngHsh  roads  of  rugged  Newfoundland, 
must  by  no  manner  of  means  be  shared  by  the  carriages 
that  travel  them,  things  at  least  one  hundred  years  be- 
hind the  time.  Such  vehicles,  on  such  roads,  fit  about  as 
well  as  a  horseman  on  one  of  our  city  avenues  dressed  in 
the  iron  clothes  of  a  crusader.  No  Yankee  rides  in  them 
who  does  not  have  his  laugh  at  their  absurd  strength  and 
clumsiQCSs.  They  are  evidently  intended  to  descend 
from  father  to  son  ;  and  they  are  just  as  certain  to  do  it 
as  they  are  to  descend  the  hills,  from  which  no  common 
horse  and  harness  can  prevent  them,  when  tolerably 
loaded.  If  the  intelligence  which  designs,  and  executes, 
and  orders  these  wagons  about,  was  not  British  intelli- 
gence, one  would  not  have  a  word  to  say.  As  it  is,  a  little 
ridicule  is  at  least  an  innocent  pastime.  Take  off  the 
box,  the  pleasure-box,  and  put  upon  the  stalwart  machine 
anything  you  choose,  stones,  saw-logs,  fire-engine,  can- 
non, and  all  wiU  go  safely.  When  you  return,  put  on  your 
pleasure-box.  again,  and  you  are  ready  for  an  airing,  wife 
and  daughters. 


I 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

PETTY  HAEBOK.— THE  MOUNTAIN   EIVER.— COD-LIVE  E    OIL.-TnE 
EVENING  EIDE  BACK   TO  ST.  JOHNS. 

To  venture  a  geological  remark :  All  these  coast 
liiglilands  correspond  with  the  summits  of  the  AUeghanies, 

and  with  those  regions  of  the  Cordilleras^  C tells  me, 

which  are  just  below  the  snow-line.  From  the  sea-line 
up  to  the  peak,  they  correspond  with  our  mountains 
above  the  upper  belt  of  woods.  Their  icy  pinnacles  and 
eternal  snows  are  floating  below  in  the  form  of  icebergs. 
Imagine  all  the  mid-mountain  region  in  the  deep,  and 
you  have  the  Andes  here. 

We  descended  in  a  zigzag  way  into  a  deep  gorge,  one 
of  those  cuts  through  the  shore  mountains  from  inland 
regions  to  the  sea,  which  occasionally  become  fiords  or 
narrow  bays.  Along  the  rocky  steps,  resembling  galle- 
ries, were  patches  of  grass  and  beds  of  flowering  mosses, 


66  THE   MOUNTAIN   RIVER. 

with  springs  bubbling  up  in  the  spongy  turf,  and  spin- 
ning themselves  out  into  snowy  threads  from  the  points 
and  edges  of  the  crags.  At  the  bottom  is  the  little  vil- 
lage of  Petty  Harbor,  where  the  river,  a  roaring  torrent, 
meets  the  salt  tide.  We  alighted  at  a  cottage.  Swiss- 
like among  the  rocks,  before  we  were  quite  down,  and 
were  pleased  to  hear  Mr.  Shea,  whose  guests  we  were, 
making  arrangements  with  a  nice-looking  woman  for  an 
abundant  supper,  on  our  return.  Mr.  S.,  in  company 
with  several  persons  who  now  joined  us  from  St.  Johns, 
then  proceeded  to  show  us  the  lions  of  the  place,  or  lion 
rather,  for  every  thing  and  everybody  are  run  up  into,  and 
knit  into  one  body,  the  fishery. 

In  the  first  place,  we  were  struck  with  the  general 
appearance  of  things.  The  fishing  flakes  completely  floor 
the  river,  and  ascend  in  terraces  for  a  short  distance  up 
the  sides  of  the  vale.  Beneath  these  wide,  evergreen 
floors,  upon  which  was  fish  in  all  states,  fresh  from  the 
knife,  and  dry  enough  for  packing,  ran  the  river,  a  brawl- 
ing stream  at  low  tide,  and  deeper,  silent  water  when  the 
tide  was  in.  We  could  look  up  the  dark  stream,  and  see  it 
dancing  in  the  mountain  sunshine,  and  down  through  the 
dim  forest  of  slender  props,  and  catch  glances  of  the  glit- 
tering sea.  Boats  were  gliding  up  out  of  the  daylight 
into  the  half-darkness,  slowly  sculled  by  brown  fishermen, 


THE   MOUNTAIN   EIVER.  67 

and  freighted  with  the  browner  cod,  laced  occasionally 
with  a  salmon.  In  this  wide  and  noiseless  shade,  these 
cool,  Lethean  realms,  sitting  upon  some  well-washed 
boulder,  one  might  easily  forget  the  heat  and  uproar  of 
all  cities,  and  become  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of 
merely  present  and  momentary  things.  If  one  doubts  it, 
let  him  immerse  himself  for  half  an  hour,  in  those  still 
and  gloomy  shadows,  strongly  seasoned  with  "  ancient 
and  fish-like  smells."  Should  he  be  able  to  reflect  upon 
the  absent,  or  engage  his  thoughts  upon  any  thing  except 
that  which  most  immediately  affects  his  senses,  he  will 
possess  a  power  of  abstraction  which  a  philosopher  and  a 
Brahmin  might  envy. 

In  the  course  of  our  walk  we  visited  a  cod-liver  oil 
manufactory.  The  process  of  making  this  article  is 
quite  simple.  The  livers,  fresh  from  the  fish,  and  nearly 
white,  are  cleanly  washed,  and  thrown  into  a  cauldron 
heated  by  steam  instead  of  fire,  where  they  gradually 
dissolve  into  oil,  which  is  dipped  out  hot  and  strained, 
first  through  conical  felt  bags,  and  then  through  those 
made  of  white  moleskin,  from  which  it  runs  pure  and 
sweet  as  table-oil.  Wine-glasses  were  at  hand,  from 
which  we  tasted  it,  and  found  it  entirely  agreeable.  In 
this  state  it  is  barrelled  for  market,  and  sold  at  an  aver- 
age price  of  one  dollar  and  fifty  cents  per  gallon.     By 


68  COD-LIVER    OIL. 

what  process  it  is  transmuted  into  that  horrid  stuff  which 
is  sold  at  a  high  price,  in  small  bottles,  perhaps  the  drug- 
gist can  inform  us.  When  I  mentioned  the  character  of 
cod-liver  oil  in  New  York,  a  gentleman  present,  qualified 
to  decide,  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  it  was  adulterated 
with  some  cheap,  base  oil.  Near  by  a  fish-house,  there 
is  ordinarily  seen  a  row  of  hogsheads  open  to  the  sun,  and 
breathing  smells  that  none  but  a  fisherman  can  abide. 
A  near  approach  discovers  these  casks  to  be  filled  with 
cod  livers  in  a  state  of  fermentation.  After  a  few  days 
in  the  sun,  these  corpulent  and  sweaty  vessels  yield  a 
rancid,  nauseous  fluid,  of  a  nut-brown  hue,  at  a  much 
less  cost  than  the  refined  oil  of  the  manufactory,  and 
which,  I  imagine,  must  have  a  flavor  not  unHke  that 
which  the  invalid  finds  lurking  in  those  genteel  flasks  on 
the  apothecary's  shelves.  After  all,  our  common  whale- 
oil,  I  suspect,  after  some  cleansing  and  bleaching,  and 
slight  seasoning  with  the  pure,  is  bad  enough  for  sick 
people. 

The  catch,  as  the  fisher  terms  the  number  of  fish 
taken,  was  small  that  day,  and  we  encountered,  here  and 
there,  knots  of  idle  men,  smoking,  chewing,  whittHng 
and  talking.  For  the  most  part,  they  were  a  russet,  tan- 
gle-haired and  shaggy-bearded  set,  shy  and  grum  at  first, 
but  presently  talkative  enough,  and  intelligent  upon  all 


THE    EVENING    RIDE    BACK    TO    ST.    JOHNS.  69 

matters  in  their  own  little  world.  Fish  were  so  glutted 
with  capelin  that  they  would  not  bite  well.  The  seines 
did  better.  Among  the  dwellings  that  we  passed  or  en- 
tered, was  one  of  a  young  English  woman,  of  such  exceed- 
ing neatness,  that  the  painter  could  not  forget  it.  That 
fine-looking,  healthy,  young  English  woman,  with  her  bit 
of  a  house  just  as  neat  as  wax,  was  often  spoken  of. 

Upon  our  return  to  the  cottage  on  the  hill-side,  where 
we  at  first  alighted,  we  sat  down,  with  sharp  appetite,  to 
a  supper  of  fried  capelin  and  cods'  tongues,  garnished 
with  cups  of  excellent  tea.  We  ate  and  drank  with  the 
relish  of  travellers,  and  talked  of  the  continent  from 
Greenland  to  Cape  Horn.  After  supper,  we  climbed  out 
of  the  valley,  in  advance  of  the  wagons  and  our  company, 
to  an  eminence  from  which  C sketched  the  surround- 
ing scenery,  more  for  the  sake  of  comparison  with  some  of 
his  Andean  pencillings  than  for  any  thing  really  new.  He 
remarked  that  the  wild  and  rocky  prospect  bore  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  high  regions  of  the  Cordilleras. 

While  he  was  engaged  with  the  pencil,  I  scrambled 
to  a  high  place,  and  looked  at  the  Atlantic,  touched 
with  long  shafts  of  the  light  and  shade  of  sunset.  All 
arrived  at  length,  and  we  were  fairly  on  our  way  back  to 
St.  Johns.  I  buttoned  my  coat  tightly,  and  wound  my 
-cloak  around  me  with  a  pleasing  sense  of  comfort  in  the 


70  THE   EVENING   RIDE   BACK   TO   ST.   JOHNS. 

clear  and  almost  wintry  air.  All  talked  somewhat  loudly, 
and  in  the  best  possible  good  humor,  our  three  wagons 
keeping  close  company,  and  making  a  pleasant  sound  of 
wheels,  as  we  ran  down  our  serpentine  way  among  the 
hills  and  lakes,  now  darkening  in  the  dusk,  and  reflecting 
the  colored  skies.  Although  there  was  not  a  water-fowl 
in  sight,  the  words  came  to  memory  spontaneously,  and 
I  recited  them  to  myself: 

"Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? " 

As  we  approached  the  town,  we  were  much  amused 
with  some  boyish  sports  of  a  new  kind.  We  saw  what 
appeared  through  the  darkness  to  be  balls  of  fire,  chasing 
each  other  down  the  craggy  hill-side,  but  which  turned 
out  to  be  a  company  of  frolicsome  boys  with  lighted 
torches,  bounding  down  the  zigzag  mountain  road. 


CHAPTER  XY. 


THE  CHUEOn  SHIP.-THE  HEKO  OP  KAES.-THE  MISSIONAEY   OF 
LABEADOE, 


Saturday,  June  25.  This  has  been  a  quiet  day, 
mostly  spent  in  making  calls  and  social  visits.  At  an 
early  hour,  in  company  with  Mr,  Newman,  the  consul, 
we  visited  the  Church  Ship,  a  pretty  vessel  of  not  more 
than  sixty  tons,  called  the  Hawk,  a  name  suggested  by 
that  line  in  the  Odyssey,  where  the  poet  says,  "  the  aus- 
picious bird  flew  under  the  guidance  of  God."  By  an 
ingenious  arrangement,  the  cabin,  which  is  a  large  part  of 
the  vessel,  can  be  changed,  in  a  few  minutes,  from  state- 
rooms into  a  saloon,  which,  again,  by  a  slight  alteration, 
becomes  a  chapel.  In  this,  at  once  home  and  church,  the 
Bishop  visits  not  only  the  harbors  and  islands  of  New- 
foundland and  Labrador,  but  the  island  of  Bermuda.  It 
was  the  gift  of  the  Rev.  Robert  Eden,  a  clergyman  of 


72  THE    HERO    OF    KARS. 

England,  Bome  twelve  years  ago,  and  has  been  employed 
in  that  benevolent  and  sacred  service  ever  since,  with  the 
promise  of  the  same  for  years  to  come.  There  are  now 
more  than  forty  settled  clergymen  and  missionaries  along 
those  cold  and  rugged  shores,  who  are  visited  from  time 
to  time  by  their  Bishop  in  this  bold  little  ship,  which  I 
shall  dismiss  for  the  present,  for  the  reason  that  there 
will  be  occasion  to  speak  of  it  again. 

From  the  Bishop's  ship  we  went  to  his  house,  where 
we  had  the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  General  Williams, 
the  hero  of  Kars,  and  to  Colonel  Law,  one  of  the  few 
now  living  who  distinguished  themselves  at  the  battle  of 
Waterloo.  In  the  presence  of  one  who  had  mingled  in 
the  grand  scenes  of  Napoleon  and  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, emotions  of  admiration  were  spontaneous.  The  hero 
of  Kars  stands  foremost  among  what  are  called  fine- 
looking  military  men,— a  tall,  commanding  person,  with 
a  most  pleasing  address. 

We  closed  the  day  with  the  consul,  who  invited  to 
join  us  the  Eev.  George  Hutchinson,  a  nephew  of  the 
poet  Wordsworth,  and  accustomed,  in  his  youthful  days, 
to  see  at  his  uncle's  such  literary  worthies  as  Lamb  and 
Southey.  He  talked  much  of  Hartley  Coleridge,  of  whose 
abilities  he  had  a  high  opinion.  Southey,  of  all,  seemed 
to  be  his  admiration.     He  was,  all  in  all,  indeed  a  won- 


THE   MISSIONARY    OF   LABRADOR. 


73 


derful  man;  a  perfect  Hercules  in  literary  labors.  A  few 
years  ago,  Mr.  Hutchinson,  moved  by  a  religious  spirit, 
was  induced  to  give  up  a  pleasant  living  in  Dorsetshire, 
under  the  Malvern  Hills,  and  devote  himself  to  the  toils 
and  privations  of  a  missionary  in  Labrador.  Upon  the 
death  of  his  mother  he  went  home,  over  a  year  ago,  and 
became  possessed  of  a  small  property.  He  has  returned 
recently,  and  is  now  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  get 
back  to  Labrador.  This  meeting  and  conversation  with 
the  Kev.  George  Hutchinson,  has  turned  out  to  be  of  more 

than  ordinary  interest.     C has  determined  to  hire  a 

vessel  for  a  month,  and  set  the  missionary  down  in  the 
midst  of  his  people,  without  further  trouble.  We  retired, 
pleasantly  excited  with  visions  of  icebergs  and  northern 
coast  scenery,  and  with  thoughts  of  preparation  for  the 
voyage. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

SUNDAY  EVENING  AT  THE  BISHOP'S.— THE  EEV.  ME.  WOOD'S  TALK 
ABOUT   ICEBERGS. 

Monday,  June  27.  We  attended  clmrcli,  yesterday, 
at  the  cathedral,  where  we  heard  practical  sermons  and 
fine  congregational  singing.  The  evening  was  passed  at 
the  Bishop's,  when  the  conversation  was  about  Ox- 
ford, and  Keble,  English  parsonages,  and  Christian  art. 
A  few  poems  were  read  from  Keble's  Christian  Year, 
and  commented  upon  by  the  Bishop,  who  is  a  personal 
friend  and  admirer  of  the  poet.  Before  the  company 
separated,  all  moved  into  a  very  beautiful  private  chapel, 
and  closed  the  evening  with  devotions. 

This  has  been  a  bright  day,  and  favorable  for  our 
preparations.  We  took  tea  with  the  Consul,  and  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wood,  the  Rector 
of  St.  Thomas',  one  of  the  city  churches  ;  who  has  true 


THE   REV.    MR.   WOOD'S   TALK   ABOUT   ICEBERGS.        75 


feeling,  and  a  thorougli  appreciation  of  fine  scenerj^,  and 
whose  descriptive  abilities  are  rare.  He  says  that  an  ice- 
berg is  to  him  the  most  impressive  of  all  objects.  Most 
beautiful  in  its  life  and  changes,  it  is,  next  to  an  earth- 
quake, most  terrible  and  appalling,  in  the  moment  of  its 
destruction,  to  those  who  may  happen  to  be  near  it. 
Upon  the  falling  of  its  peaks  and  precipices,  waves  and 
thunders  carry  the  intelligence  across  the  waters.  Lofty 
as  it  frequently  is,  the  head  only,  helmeted  and  plumed 
with  dazzling  beauty,  is  above  the  sea.  In  its  solemn 
march  along  the  blue  main,  how  it  steps  upon  the  high 
places  of  the  deep,  is  all  unseen.  Around  its  mighty 
form,  far  down  its  alabaster  cliflfs  and  caverns,  no  eye  plays 
but  that  of  the  imagination.  When  it  pauses  in  its  last 
repose,  and  perishes,  at  timesj  as  quickly  as  if  it  were 
smitten  by  the  lightning,  you  may  stand  in  the  distance 
and  gaze  with  awe,  but  never  draw  near  to  witness  the 
motions  and  sounds  of  its  dissolution.  After  tea,  we  sat 
by  the  windows,  which  face  the  east  and  command  the 
harbor,  with  its  grand  entrance  from  the  Atlantic,  and 
enjoyed  the  scene,  one  of  unusual  splendor,  every  cliff 
glowing  with  hues  of  reddish  orange. 


CHAPTEE   XYII. 

OUR  VESSEL  FOR  LABRADOR.-WRECK  OP  THE  ARGO-THE  FISHER- 
MAN'S FUNERAL. 

Wednesday,  June  29.  We  are  far  advanced  in  our 
preparations  for  the  voyage.  Yesterday  and  to-day,  we 
have  been  busily  engaged,  and  now  see  the  way  clear  for 
leaving  to-morrow  morning.      Bishop  Field,  who,  with 

many  others,  is  pleased  that  C has  volunteered  to  take 

Mr.  Hutchinson  and  Mr.  Botwood,  his  associate,  to  Lab- 
rador, sailed  on  the  visitation  of  his  extended  diocese  to- 
day. The  Church  Ship,  which  we  visited  in  the  morning, 
looked,  in  her  perfect  order  and  neatness,  with  her  signal 
guns  and  her  colors  flying,  quite  like  a  little  man-of-war. 
We  shall  follow  for  awhile  in  her  track,  but  with  no  ex- 
pectation of  seeing  her  again. 

Allow  me  now  to  take  you  to  the  wharf,  and  show 
you  the  craft  which  C has  selected  for  his  novel,  and 


OUR   VESSEL   FOR  LABRADOR. 


77 


somewliat  perilous  expedition.  Here  she  lies,  the  Integ- 
rity, of  Sydney,  Cape  Breton,  a  pink-sterned  schooner,  of 
only  sixty-five  tons,  but  reputed  safe  and  a  good  sailer. 
Her  forecastle  contains  the  skipper  and  mate,  a  young 
man  of  twenty-two,  the  owner  of  the  vessel,  and  three 
men,  the  youngest  an  overgrown  Scotch  lad,  who  has  been 
serving,  and  will  continue  to  serve  us,  in  the  capacity  of 
cook.  Her  cabin  is  for  Captain  Knight,  the  commander, 
pro  tem.,  with  whom  you  will  be  made  much  better  ac- 
quainted. Just  forward  of  the  cabin,  in  the  hold,  there 
has  been  a  temporary  cabin  partitioned  off,  and  furnished 
with  beds,  bedding,  chairs  and  table  ;  in  short,  with  every 
necessary  article  for  the  comfort  and  convenience  of  five 
individuals.  In  this  snug  little  room,  and  in  the  hold, 
laden  only  with  a  light  stone  ballast,  are  stores  and  pro- 
visions, of  the  very  best  quality,  for  two  full  months, 
wood  and  water  to  be  taken  along  shore  as  need  shall  re- 
quire. 

At  C 's  sole  expense,  and  under  his  control,  this 

vessel  is  to  cruise  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  region  of  the  ice- 
bergs, setting  down  the  missionaries  by  the  way.  The  sheet 
anchor  and  mainstay  (I  begin  to  speak  the  language  of 
the  mariner)  of  our  hopes  of  a  pleasant  and  successful 
trip,  humanly  speaking,  is  Captain  Knight,  a  respected 
citizen  of  St.  Johns,  and  an  accomplished  sailor,  whom 


78  WEECK    OF    THE    ARGO. 

C has  had  the  good   fortune  to  secure   as  master, 

pilot,  and  companion. 

We  have  been  startled  by  the  intelligence,  that  the 
Argo,  of  the  Galway  line  of  steamers,  from  New  York  to 
Scotland,  is  ashore  at  St.  Shotts,  near  Cape  Kace.  As 
usual,  a  variety  of  reports  have  agitated  the  community, 
and  made  people  look  with  eagerness  for  the  return  of  the 
two  small  harbor  steamers,  which  Mr.  Shea,  the  agent  for 
that  line,  dispatched  yesterday  to  the  scene  of  distress. 
One  of  the  tugs,  the  Blue  Jacket,  has  at  length  arrived 
with  a  part  of  the  passengers  in  sad  plight.  It  is  the  old 
story  of  shipwreck  on  these  rocky  coasts.  Wrapped  in 
fogs,  and  borne  forward  by  a  powerful  current,  the  ill-fated 
ship  struck  the  shore,  a  few  moments  after  it  was  discov- 
ered. Providentially,  it  was  calm  weather,  and  the  sea 
unusually  quiet,  or  all  had  perished.  As  it  was,  all  went 
safely  to  land,  and  encamped  in  the  woods.  Numbers  of 
the  passengers,  saddened  by  the  loss  of  trunks  containing 
clothing  and  other  valuables,  excited  and  fatigued,  tell 
bitter  stories  of  carelessness  and  inefficiency. 

While,  with  a  crowd  of  people,  we  were  at  the  pier, 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  Blue  Jacket,  a  funeral  pro- 
cession of  boats  with  little  white  flags,  half  pole,  came 
slowly  rowing  in  from  sea,  and  across  the  harbor,  and 
landed  with  the  coffin  near  where  we  were  standing.    Not 


THE   FISHERMAN  S    FUNERAL. 


79 


only  the  relatives  were  dressed  in  mourning,  but  the 
bearers.  There  were  long  flowing  weeds  of  black  crape 
upon  all  their  hats,  and  wide  white  cambric  cuffs  upon 
the  sleeves  of  their  coats.  They  were  of  the  fishing  class, 
from  some  village  up  or  down  the  coast,  and  conducted 
matters  apparently  with  more  dispatch  than  mournful- 
ness.  A  hearse  or  black  carriage,  of  very  substantial 
make,  with  a  high  top,  and  white  fringe  or  valance  de- 
pending from  its  eaves  instead  of  curtains,  was  waiting 
on  the  wharf,  attended  by  a  man  with  a  flag  of  white 
linen  attached  to  his  hat. 

Among  our  last  calls  to-day,  was  one  of  ceremony 
upon  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady  Bannerman,  from  whom 
we  had  received  an  invitation  to  dine.  Her  ladyship,  a 
fine-looking  person,  of  graceful  and  dignified  manners  and 

pleasing   conversation,  talked   with  interest   of  C 's 

excursion,  and  particularly  of  that  part  of  it-  relating  to 
his  carrying  Mr.  Hutchinson  to  Labrador.  After  taking 
our  leave,  we  went  with  Mr.  Newman  to  look  after  some 
fireworks,  which  his  Excellency  has  been  pleased  to  order 
for  our  amusement  at  night  among  the  icebergs. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

OUR    FIEST    EVENING    AT    SEA 

Thursday  evening,  June  30.  At  sea.  I  am  now 
writing,  for  the  first  time  to-day,  by  the  candles  on  our 
table  in  the  main  cabin  of  the  Integrity.  We  are  sailing 
northward  with  a  fair  wind,  but  with  fog  and  rather 
rough  water.  But  let  me  go  back,  and  take  the  day 
from  the  beginning,  passing  lightly  over  its  labors  and 
vexations. 

The  morning  opened  upon  us  brilliantly,  and  all  were 
employed  about  those  many  little  things  which  only  can 
be  done  at  the  last  moment.  Noon  came  and  an  early 
dinner,  before  that  all  were  in  readiness  and  aboard.  And 
then,  as  if  in  retaliation  for  our  delay  during  so  many 
lovely  hours,  the  wind  was  not  ready,  and  so  we  were 
obliged  to  be  towed  by  the  Blue  Jacket  quite  out  into 
broad  water,  where  she  left  us  with  our  colors  quivering 


OUR   FIRST    EVENING   AT   SEA. 


in  the  sunshine,  and  all  our  canvas  swelling  in  a  mild 
southerly  breeze.  The  coast  scenery,  and  the  iceberg  of 
Torbay,  and  the  last  gleams  of  sunset  upon  land  and 
ocean,  were  the  lions  of  the  afternoon. 

We  have  taken  our  first  tea,  counting,  with  a  lad  in 
the  charge  of  Mr.  Hutchinson,  six  around  the  table,  and 
making,  with  the  crew,  eleven  souls,  quite  a  little  congre- 
gation, could  all  be  spared  to  attend  the  short  morning 
and  evening  services.  We  are  just  beginning  to  feel  the 
effects  of  a  small  vessel  with  no  lading  beyond  a  light 
ballast.  She  rolls  excessively,  rises  with  every  swell,  and 
pitches  into  the  succeeding  hollow.  This  has  already  be- 
gun to  disperse  our  company  to  their  berths,  as  the  more 
comfortable  place  for  the  random  conversation  which  will 
close  the  day. 

4* 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ICEBEKGS  OF  THE  OPEN  SEA.-THE  OCEAN  CHASE.-TnE  EETEEAT  TO 
CAT  HAEBOE. 

Friday,  July  1.  The  fog  is  so  dense  that  the  rigging 
drips  as  if  it  rained.     In  fact,  if  it  be  not  the  finest  of 

aU  rain,  then  it  is  the  thickest  of  aU  mists.     C and  I 

are  sea-sick,  almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  look  upon 
aU  preparations  for  breakfast  with  no  peculiar  satisfac- 
tion. Our  consolation  is,  that  we  are  sailing  forward, 
although  with  only  very  moderate  speed. 

Delightful  change  !  It  is  clearing  up.  The  noon- 
day sun  is  showering  the  dark  ocean,  here  and  there, 
with  the  whitest  light.  And  lo  !  an  iceberg  on  our  left. 
Lo  !  an  iceberg  on  our  right.  An  iceberg  ahead  !  Yes, 
two  of  them  ! — ^four  ! — five — six  ! — and  there,  a  white 
pinnacle  just  pricking  above  the  horizon.  Wonderful  to 
behold,  there  are  no  less  than  thirteen  icebergs  in  fair 


THE    OCEAN    CHASE.  83 

view.  We  run  forward,  and  then  we  run  aft,  and  then 
to  this  side,  and  that.  We  lean  towards  them  over  the 
railing,  and  spring  up  into  the  shrouds,  as  if  these  hoyish 
efforts  brought  us  nearer,  and  made  them  plainer  to  our 
delighted  eyes.  With  a  quiet  energy,  C betakes  him- 
self to  painting,  and  I  to  my  note-book.  But  can  you  tell 
me  why  I  pause,  almost  put  up  the  pencil,  and  pocket 
the  book  ?  I  am  only  a  little  sea-sick.  The  cold  sweat 
starts  upon  the  forehead,  and  I  feel  pale.  We  bear  away 
now,  such  is  the  order,  for  the  largest  berg  in  sight.  I 
freshen  again  with  the  growing  excitement  of  this  novel 
chase,  and  feel  a  pleasurable  sense  of  freedom  that  I  can 
never  describe.  I  could  bound  like  a  deer,  and  shout  like 
the  wild  Indian,  for  very  joy.  The  vessel  seems  to  sym- 
pathize, and  spring  forward  with  new  spirit.  The  words 
leap  out  of  the  memory,  and  I  give  them  a  good  strong 
voice  : 

'  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free." 

Indeed,  there  is  a  hearty  pleasure  in  this  freedom  of  the 
ocean,  when,  as  now  with  us,  it  is  "  all  before  you  where 
to  choose."  Tied  to  no  task,  fettered  to  no  line  of  voyage, 
to  no  scant  time  allowanced,  the  ship,  the  ocean  and  the 
day,  are  ours.    Like  the  poet's  river,  that  "  windeth  at  its 


84  -  THE    OCEAN    CHASE. 

own  sweet  will/'  our  wishes  flow  down  the  meandering 
channel  of  circumstances,  and  we  go  with  the  current. 

And  how  lovely  the  prospect  as  we  go  !  That  this  is 
all  God's  own  world,  which  he  holdeth  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand,  is  manifest  from  the  impartial  bestowal  of 
beauty.  'No  apple,  peach  or  rose  is  more  within  one  net- 
work of  sweet,  living  grace,  than  the  round  world.  How 
wonderful  and  precious  a  thing  must  this  beauty  be,  that 
it  is  thus  all-pervading,  and  universal !  Here  on  these 
bleak  and  barren  shores,  so  rocky,  rough  and  savage,  is  a 
rich  and  delicate  splendor  that  amazes.  The  pure  azure 
of  the  skies,  and  the  deeply  blue  waters,  one  would  think 
were  sufficient  for  rude  and  fruitless  regions  such  as  these. 
But  look,  how  they  shine  and  scintillate  !  The  iron 
cheeks  of  yonder  headland  blush  with  glory,  and  the 
west  is  all  magnificent.  Gaze  below  into  the  everlasting 
evening  of  the  deep.  Glassy,  glittering  things,  like  chan- 
deliers dispersed,  twinkle  in  the  fluid  darkness.  The 
very  fishes,  clad  in  purple  and  satin,  silvery  tissues  and 
cloth-of-gold,  seem  to  move  with  colored  lights.  God 
hath  apparelled  all  his  creatures,  and  we  call  it  beauty. 

As  we  approach  the  bergs,  they  assume  a  great  variety 
of  forms.  Indeed,  their  changes  are  quite  wonderful.  In 
passing  around  a  single  one,  we  see  as  good  as  ten,  so 
protean  is  its  character.     I   know  of  no  object  in  all 


THE    OCEAN    CHASE. 


85 


nature  so  marvelously  sensitive  to  a  steady  gaze.  Sit 
motionless,  and  look  at  one,  and,  fixture  as  it  appears,  it 
has  its  changes  then.  It  marks  with  unerring  faithful- 
ness every  condition  of  atmosphere,  and  every  amount 
of  light  and  shadow.  Thus  manifold  complexions  trem- 
ble over  it,  for  which  the  careless  observer  may  see  no 
reason,  and  many  shapes,  heights  and  distances  swell  and 
shrink  it,  move  it  to  and  from,  of  which  the  mind  may 
not  readily  assign  a  cause. 

The  large  iceberg,  for  which  we  bore  away  this  morn- 
ing, resembled,  at  one  moment,  a  cluster  of  Chinese 
buildings,  then  a  Gothic  cathedral,  early  style.  It  was 
curious  to  see  how  all  that  mimicry  of  a  grand  religious 
pile  was  soon  transmuted  into  something  like  the  Coliseum, 
its  vast  interior  now  a  delicate  blue,  and  then  a  greenish 
white.  It  was  only  necessary  to  run  on  half  a  mile  to 
find  this  icy  theatre  split  asunder.  An  age  of  ruin  ap- 
peared to  have  passed  over  it,  leaving  only  the  two  ex- 
tremes, the  inner  cliffs  of  one  a  glistening  white,  of  the 
other,  a  blue,  soft  and  airy  as  the  July  heavens. 

In  the  neighborhood,  were  numbers  of  block-like  bergs, 
which,  when  thrown  together  by  our  perpetual  change  of 

L position,  resembled  the  ruins  of  a  marble  city.  The  play 
of  the  light  and   shadows   among   its   inequalities  was 


86  THE    RETREAT    TO   CAT    HARBOR. 

myra  of  the  waves,  lay  a  berg  closely  resembling  a  huge 
ship  of  war,  with  the  stern  submerged,  over  which  the 
surf  was  breaking  finely,  while  the  stem,  sixty  or  seventy 
feet  aloft,  with  what  the  fancy  easily  shaped  into  a  majes- 
tic figure-head,  looked  with  fixed  serenity  over  the  dis- 
tant waters.  As  we  ran  athwart  the  bow,  it  changed  in- 
stantly into  the  appearance  of  some  gigantic  sculpture, 
with  broad  surfaces  as  smooth  as  polished  ivory,  and  with 
salient  points  cut  with  wonderful  perfection.  The  dash- 
ing of  the  waves  sounded  like  the  dashing  at  the  foot  of 
rocky  clifis,  indicative  of  the  mass  of  ice  below  the  sur- 
face. 

As  the  afternoon  advances  the  breeze  strengthens, 
blowing  sharply  off  to  sea.  We  have  the  most  brilliant 
sunshine,  with  a  clear,  cold,  exhilarating  air.  It  very 
nearly  dispels  all  the  nausea  caused  by  this  excessive 
rolling.  We  are  now  beating  up  from  the  east  toward 
the  land,  and  passing  several  of  the  bergs,  in  the  chase 
of  which  we  have  spent  so  many  joyous  hours.  Every 
few  minutes  we  have  new  forms  and  new  effects,  new 
thoughts  and  fresh  emotions.  The  grand  ruins  of  the 
Oriental  deserts,  hunted  on  the  fleetest  coursers,  would 
awaken,  I  fancy,  kindred  feelings.  Full  of  shadowy  sub- 
limities are  these  great  broken  masses,  as  we  sweep 
around  them,  fall  away,  tack  and  return  again. 


THE    RETREAT    TO    CAT    HARBOK. 


87 


I  never  could  have  felt,  and  so  must  not  think  of 
making  others  feel  through  the  medium  of  language,  the 
possibility  of  being  so  deceived  in  respect  of  the  bulk  of 
these  islands-of-ice,  as  our  sailors  always  call  them. 
What  seems,  in  the  distance,  a  mere  piece  of  ice,  of  good 
snow-bank  size  only,  is  really  a  mass  of  such  dimensions 
as  to  require  you  to  look  up  to  it,  as  you  sail  around  it, 
and  feel,  as  you  gaze,  a  sense  of  grandeur.  What  you 
might  suppose  could  be  run  down  as  easily  as  a  pile  of 
light  cotton,  would  wreck  the  proudest  clipper  as  effectu- 
ally as  the  immovable  adamant. 

Between  the  great  northern  current,  and  the  breeze 
which  plumes  the  innumerable  waves  with  sparkliDg 
white,  our  course  has  become  rather  more  tortuous  and 
rough  than  is  agreeable  to  landsmen  who  have  only  come 
abroad  upon  the  deep  for  pleasure  and  instruction.  The 
painter  has  cleaned  his  pallet,  wiped  his  brushes,  shut  his 
painting-box,  and  gone  below.  I  am  sitting  here,  near 
the  helm,  close  upon  the  deck,  screened  from  the  spray 
that  occasionally  flies  over,  heavily  coated,  and  cold  at 
that,  making  some  almost  illegible  notes.  Life,  it  is 
often  said,  is  a  stormy  ocean.  It  is  07i  the  ocean,  cer- 
tainly, that  one  feels  the  whole  force  of  the  comparison. 

The  wind,  which  is  blowing  strongly,  is  getting  into 
the  north,  dead  ahead,  and  sweeping  us  away  upon  our 


88  THE   RETKEAT    TO    CAT    HARBOE. 

back  track.  We  are  too  lightly  ballasted  to  tack  with 
success,  and  hold  our  own.  The  bergs  are  retiring,  and 
appear  like  ruins  and  broken  columns.  We  are  now  fairly 
on  the  retreat,  and  flying  under  reefed  sails  to  a  little  bay, 
called  Cat  Harbor.  All  aloft  has  the  tightness  and  the 
ring  of  drums,  and  the  whistling  of  a  hundred  fifes.  The 
voice  of  the  master  is  quick,  and  to  the  point,  and  the 
motions  and  the  footsteps  of  the  men,  rapid.  On  our 
bows  are  the  explosion  and  the  shock  of  swells,  the  re- 
sounding knocks  and  calls  of  old  Neptune,  and  upon  the 
deck  such  showers  of  his  most  brilliant  flowers  and 
bouquets  as  I  feel  in  no  haste  to  gather.  The  sea-fowl 
whirl  in  the  gale  like  loose  plumes  and  papers,  pouring 
out  their  wild  complaints  as  they  pass. 


CHAPTEK    XX. 

CAT    HAEBOE.— EVENING    SEEVICE   IN   CnURCH.— THE    FISHEEMAN'S 
FIEE.— THE   EETUEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

At  eight  o'clock,  our  brave  little  pink-stern  was  lying 
at  anchor  in  her  haven,  as  quietly  as  a  babe  in  its  cradle, 
with  the  wind  piping  a  pleasant  lullaby  in  the  rigging, 
and  the  roar  of  the  ocean  nearly  lost  in  the  distance. 
A  few  rude  erections  along  the  rocky  shore,  with  a  small 
church,  a  store  and  warehouse,  compose  the  town  of  Cat 
Harbor,  the  life  of  which  seems  to  be  the  water-craft 
busy  in  the  one  common  employment,  some  returning 
with  the  catch  of  the  day,  others  going  for  the  catch  of 

the  night.     While  C was  painting  a  sketch  of  the 

scene,  the  sun  vanished  behind  the  purple  inland  hills, 
with  unusual  splendor,  and  left  the  distant  icebergs  in 
such  a  white  "  as  no  fuller  on  earth  can  white  them." 

After   dinner,  notwithstanding  the  lateness   of  the 


90  EVENING   SERVICE   IN    CHURCH. 

hour,  Mr.  Hutchinson,  who  knew  that  the  clergyman  in 
charge  was  absent,  resolved  to  go  ashore,  and  invite  the 
people  to  attend  divine  service.  As  soon  as  we  were 
landed,  he  left  us  to  make  our  way  to  the  church,  at  our 
leisure,  while  he  ran  from  house  to  house  to  announce 
himself,  and  to  give  notice  of  the  intended  services.  Our 
path,  as  usual  in  these  coast  hamlets,  went  in  zigzag, 
serpentine  ways,  among  evergreen  fishing-borwers,  and 
many-legged  flakes  and  huts,  and  oddly-fenced  potato- 
patches.  In  the  marshy  field  around  the  church,  we  had 
some  time  to  amuse  ourselves  with  gathering  slender  bul- 
rushes tipped  with  plumes  of  whitest  down.  They  were 
sprinkled  all  abroad  like  snow-flakes  over  the  dusky  green 
ground,  and  we  ran  about  with  the  eagerness  of  boys, 
selecting  the  prettiest  as  specimens  for  home. 

Twilight  was  already  close  upon  the  darkness.  We 
turned  from  the  chase  of  our  thistle-down  toys,  and 
gazed  upon  the  solemn  magnificence  around  us — the 
dark  and  lonesome  land — the  bay,  reflecting  the  colored 
heavens — the  warm  orange  fading  out  into  the  cool  pearl, 
and  the  pearl  finally  lost  in  the  broad  blue  above. 

It  was  fully  candle-light  when  the  congregation, 
about  forty,  assembled,  and  the  service  began.  The  mis- 
sionary preached  extempore  a  practical  sermon  adapted 
to  his  hearers,  and  we  sang,  to  the  tune  of  Old  Hundred, 


THE   FISHEEMAN'S   FIRE.  '  91 


the  One  Hundredth  Psalm,  making  the  dimly- lighted 
sanctuary  ring  again.  After  church,  our  party  were  in- 
vited to  warm  at  one  of  the  houses,  which  we  did  most 
effectually  before  a  broad  and  roaring  fire,  while  mine 
host  recounted  the  toil  and  the  pleasure  of  getting  winter 
wood  over  the  deep  snows  with  his  team  of  dogs,  and  the 
more  perilous  and  exciting  labors  of  the  fish-harvest, 
upon  which  life  and  all  depend.  At  the  mention  of  the 
puff-pig,  the  local  name  for  the  common  porpoise,  we  in- 
dulged ourselves  in  a  childish  laugh.  A  more  ludicrous, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  more  descriptive  name  could  not 
be  hit  upon. 

During  the  half-hour  around  the  exhilarating  July 
fire,  there  dropped  in,  one  by  one,  a  room-full,  curious  to 
see  and  hear  the  strangers  from  St.  Johns  and  America, 
as  the  United  States  are  often  called.  We  parted  with  a 
general  shaking  of  hands,  and  plenty  of  good  wishes, 
among  which  was  one,  "  that  we  might  have  many  igh 
hicebergs."  Some  half  dozen  attended  us  to  the  shore, 
and  brought  us  off  in  handsome  style  over  the  calm  and 
phosphorescent  waters.  At  every  dip  of  the  oars  it  was 
like  unraking  the  sparkling  embers,  so  brilliant  was  that 
beautiful  light  of  the  sea.  The  boatmen  called  it  the  burn- 
ing of  the  water.  "  When  the  water  burnt,''  they  said, 
"  it  was  a  sure  sign  of  south  wind  and  a  plenty  of  fish." 


92  THE    RETURN    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

It  was  one  of  those  still  and  starry  nights  which  re- 
quire only  an  incident  or  so  to  make  them  too  beautiful 
ever  to  be  forgotten.  Those  incidents  were  now  present, 
in  a  peculiarly  plaintive  murmur  of  the  ocean,  the  kin- 
dling waves,  and  a  delicate  play  of  the  Aurora  Borealis. 
When  we  reached  our  vessel  it  was  almost  midnight,  and 
still  there  was  sweet  daylight  in  the  far  north- west,  mov- 
ing along  the  circle  of  the  northern  horizon  to  brighten 
into  morning  before  we  were  half  through  our  light  and 
dreamy  slumbers.  Weary  and  drowsy,  all  have  crept  to 
their  berths  ;  and  I  will  creep  into  mine  when  I  have  put 
the  period  to  the  notes  of  this  long  and  delightful  day. 
I  hear  the  footfalls  of  the  watch  on  deck.  May  God  keep 
us  through  the  short,  but  most  solitary  night,  and  speed 
us  early  on  our  northern  voyage  ! 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 


AFTER    ICEBERGS  AGAIN.  — AMONG  THE    SEA-FOWL. 


I 


Satueday,  July  2.  It  is  ^yq  o'clock,  and  the  morn- 
ing has  kindled  in  the  clouds  its  brightest  fires.  We  are 
moving  off  to  sea  gracefully  before  a  fair,  light  wind. 
The  heart  delights  in  this  golden  promise  of  a  fine  sum- 
mer day,  and  the 'blue  Atlantic  all  before  us.  As  the 
rising  sun  looks  over  it,  the  glittering  waves  seem  to  par- 
ticipate in  these  joyful  emotions.  How  marvelously 
beautiful  is  this  vast  scene  !  Give  me  the  sea,  I  say, 
now  that  I  am  on  the  sea.  Give  me  the  mountains,  I 
say,  when  I  am  on  the  mountains  !  Henceforth,  when 
I  am  weary  with  the  task  of  life,  I  will  cry,  Give  me  the 
mountains  and  the  sea. 

The  rugged  islands,  landward,  have  only  an  olive,  not 
the  living  green,  and  seem  never  to  have  rejoiced  in  the 
blessing  of  a  tree,  or  felt  the  delicious  mercy  of  a  leafy 


94  AMONG   THE   SEA-FOWL. 

shade.  There  blow  the  whales,  and  here  is  the  edge  of 
an  innumerable  multitude  of  sea-birds  feeding  upon  the 
capelin,  and  flying  to  the  right  and  left,  thick  as  grass- 
hoppers, as  we  advance  among  them.  Poor  things,  they 
are  so  glutted  that  they  are  obliged  to  disgorge  before 
they  can  gain  the  wing,  and  many  of  them  merely  scram- 
ble aside  a  few  yards,  and  become  the  mark  of  the 
roguish  sailors,  especially  of  Sandy,  our  young  Scotch 
cook,  who  is  in  a  perfect  frolic,  pelting  them  with  stones. 
They  sprinkle  the  sea  by  the  million,  and  present,  with 
their  white  breasts  and  perpetually  arching  wings,  a 
lively  and  novel  appearance.  On  the  roll  of  the  swells, 
as  the  sunlight  glances  on  them,  they  flash  out  white 
like  water-lilies. 

How  the  pages  of  a  book  fail  to  carry  these  scenes 
into  the  heart !  I  have  been  reading  of  them  for  years, 
and,  as  I  have  thought,  reading  understandingly  and 
feelingly ;  but  I  can  now  say  that  I  have  never  known, 
certainly  never  felt  them  until  now.  The  living  presence 
of  them  has  an  originality,  a  taste  and  odor  for  the 
imagination,  which  can  never  be  expressed  even  by  the 
vivid  and  sensuous  language  of  the  painter,  much  less  by 
the  more  subtle,  intellectual  medium  of  written  records. 
It  is  so  new  and  fresh  to  me,  that  I  feel  as  if  none  had 
ever  seen  this  prospect  before.     Old  and  familiar  as  these 


AMONG    THE    SEA-FOWL. 


95 


I 


waters  are,  I  am  thrilled  with  emotions,  kindred  to  those 
of  a  discoverer,  and  remember  and  repeat  the  rhyme  of 
the  Ancient  Mariner : 


We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 


Silent  sea !  This  is  any  thing  but  that.  The  surf,  which 
leaps  up  with  the  lightness  and  rapidity  of  flames,  for 
many  and  many  a  white  mile,  roars  among  the  sharp, 
bleak  crags  of  the  islands  and  the  coast  like  mighty 
cataracts.  Words  of  the  Psalmist  fall  naturally  upon 
the  tongue,  and  I  speak  them  in  low  tones  to  myself : 

Voices  are  heard  among  them. 
Their  sound  is  gone  out  into  all  lands. 

"  And  so  sail  we,"  this  glorious  morning,  after  the  ice- 
bergs, several  of  which  stand  sentinel  along  our  eastern 
horizon  ;  but  we  do  not  turn  aside  for  them,  for  the  reason 
that  we  confidently  look  for  others  more  closely  on  our 
proper  track. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

NOTEE  DAME  BAY.— FOGO  ISLAND  AND  THE  THEEE  HUNDRED 
ISLES.— THE  FEEEDOM  OF  THE  SEAS.— THE  ICEBEEG  OF  THE 
SUNSET,  AND    THE    FLIGHT    INTO    TWILLINGATE. 

After  noon,  with  the  faintest  breeze,  and  the  sea 
like  a  flowing  mirror.  We  have  sailed  by  the  most  east- 
ern promontories,  Cape  Bonavista  and  Cape  Freels,  and 
have  now  arrived  at  a  point  where  the  coast  falls  off  far 
to  the  west,  and  gives  place  to  Notre  Dame  Bay,  the 
great  Archipelago  of  Newfoundland,  of  which  there  is 
comparatively  little  known.  Our  true  course  is  nearly 
north,  and  along  the  eastern  or  Atlantic  side  of  Fogo, 
which  is  now  before  us,  the  first  and  largest  of  some  three 
hundred  islands.  For  the  sake  of  the  romantic  scenery, 
we  conclude  to  take  the  inside  route. 

From  the  shores  of  Fogo,  which  are  broken,  and  ex- 
ceedingly picturesque  further  on,  as  Captain  Knight  in- 
forms us,  the  land  rises  into  moderate  hills,  thinly  wooded 


FOGO  ISLAND    AND   THE    THREE    HUNDRED   ISLES.       97 

with  evergreens,  with  here  and  there  a  little  farm  and 
dwelling.  Perhaps  there  are  twenty  rural  smokes  in 
sight  and  a  spire  or  two.  Under  the  full-blown  summer 
all  looks  pleasant  and  inviting.  What  will  not  the  glori- 
ous sunshine  bless  and  beautify  ?  A  dark  and  dusty 
garret  wakes  up  to  life  and  brightness,  give  it  an  open 
window  and  the  morning  sun. 

The  western  headlands  of  Fogo  are  exceedingly  at- 
tractive, lofty,  finely  broken,  of  a  red  and  purplish  brown, 
tinted  here  and  there  with  pale  green.  The  painter 
is  busy  with  his  colors.  As  we  pass  the  bold  prominences 
and  deep,  narrow  bays  or  fiords,  they  are  continually 
changing  and  surprising  us  with  a  new  scenery.  And 
now  the  great  sea-wall,  on  our  right,  opens  and  discloses 
the  harbor  and  village  of  Fogo,  the  chief  place  of  the 
island,  gleaming  in  the  setting  sun  as  if  there  were  flames 
shining  through  the  windows.  Looking  to  the  left,  all 
the  western  region  is  one  fine  -^gean,  a  sea  filled  with  a 
multitude  of  isles,  of  manifold  forms  and  sizes,  and  of  every 
height,  from  mountain  pyramids  and  crested  ridges  down 
to  rounded  knolls  and  tables,  rocky  ruins  split  and  shat- 
tered, giant  slabs  sliding  edgewise  into  the  deep,  columns 
and  grotesque  masses  ruffled  with  curling  surf — the  Cyc- 
lades  of  the  west.  I  climb  the  shrouds,  and  behold  fields 
and  lanes  of  water,  an  endless  and  beautiful  network,  a 


98  THE  FREEDOM  OF  THE  SEAS. 

little  Switzerland  with  her  vales  and  gorges  filled  with 
the  purple  sea. 

After  dinner,  and  nearly  sunset.  We  are  breaking 
away  from  the  isles  into  the  open  Atlantic,  bearing 
northerly  for  Cape  St.  John,  where  Captain  Knight  prom- 
ises the  very  finest  coast  scenery.  Far  away  on  the  blue, 
floats  a  solitary  pyramid  of  ice,  while  a  few  miles  to  the 
east  of  us  there  stands  the  image  of  some  grand  Capitol, 
in  shining  marble.  Looking  back  upon  the  isles,  as  they 
retire  in  the  south  and  west,  with  the  hues  of  sunset  upon 
their  green  and  cloud-like  blue,  we  behold,  the  painter 
tells  me,  a  likeness  to  some  West-Indian  views. 

Once  again  the  breeze  swells  every  sail,  and  we  are 
speeding  forward  after  the  icebergs.  All  goes  merrily. 
It  sings  and  cracks  aloft,  and  roars  around  the  prow.  We 
speed  onward.  The  little  ship,  like  a  very  falcon,  flies 
down  the  wind  after  the  game,  and  promises  to  reach  it 
by  the  last  of  daylight.  A  long  line  of  gilding. tracks  the 
violet  sea,  and  expands  in  a  lake  of  dazzling  brightness 
under  the  sun.  Beneath  all  this  press  of  sail,  we  ride  on 
fast  and  steadily,  as  a  car  over  the  prairies.  We  seem  to 
be  all  alive.  This  is  fine,  inexpressibly  fine  !  This  is 
freedom  !  I  lean  forward  and  look  over  the  bow,  and, 
like  a  rider  in  a  race,  feel  a  new  delight  and  excitement. 
Wonderful  and  beautiful  !     Like  the  Arab  on  his  sands, 


THE    ICEBERG    OF    THE    SUNSET.  99 

I  say,  almost  involuntarily,  God  is  great  !  How  soft  is 
the  feeling  of  this  breeze,  and  how  balmy  is  the  smell, 
"  like  the  smell  of  Lebanon,"-  and  yet  how  powerful  to 
bear  us  onward  !  We  rise  and  bow  gracefully  to  the 
passing  swells,  but  keep  right  on.  Fogo  is  sinking  in  the 
south,  a  line  of  roseate  heights,  and  fresh  ice  sparkles 
like  stars  on  the  northern  horizon. 

We  dart  off  a  mile  or  more  from  our  right  path  in 
order  to  bring  a  small  berg  between  us  and  the  sun,  that 
we  may  look  into  his  sunset  beauties.  A  dull  cloud,  close 
down  upon  the  waves,  may  defeat  this  manoeuvre.  We 
shall  conquer  yet.  There,  he  rises  from  the  sea,  a  sphinx 
of  pure  white  against  the  glowing  sky,  and  every  man 
aboard  is  as  full  of  fine  excitement  as  if  we  were  to  grap- 
ple with,  and  chain  him.  We  pass  directly  under  the 
great  face,  the  upper  line  of  which  overlooks  our  top- 
mast. Every  curve,  swell  and  depression  have  the  finish 
of  the  most  exquisite  sculpture,  and  all  drips  with  silvery 
water  as  if  newly  risen  from  the  deep.  In  the  pure, 
white  mass  there  is  the  suspicion  of  green.  Every  wave, 
by  contrast,  and  by  some  optical  effect,  nearly  black  as 
it  approaches,  is  instantly  changed  into  the  loveliest 
green  as  it  rolls  up  to  the  silvery  bright  ice.  And  all 
the  adjacent  deep  is  a  luminous  pea-green.  The  eye 
follows  the  ice  into  its  awful  depths,  and  is  at  once  star- 


100  THE    ICEBERG    OF    THE    SUNSET. 

tied  and  delighted  to  find  tliat  the  mighty  crystal  hangs 
suspended  in  a  vast  transparency,  or  floats  in  an  abyss  of 
liquid  emerald. 

We  pass  on  the  shadow  side,  soft  and  delicate  as  satin, 
and  changeable  as  costliest  silk ;  the  white,  the  dove- 
color  and  the  green  playing  into  each  other  with  the  sub- 
tlety and  fleetness  of  an  Aurora-Borealis.  As  the  light 
streams  over  and  around  from  the  illuminated  side,  the 
entire  outline  of  the  berg  shines  like  newly-burnished  sil- 
ver in  the  blaze  of  noon.  The  painter  is  working  with  all 
possible  rapidity  ;  but  we  pass  too  quick  to  harvest  all 
this  beauty  :  he  can  only  glean  some  golden  straws.  A 
few  sharp  words  from  the  captain  bring  the  vessel  to,  and 
we  pause  long  enough  for  some  finishing  touches.  He 
has  them,  and  we  are  off  again.  An  iceberg  is  an  object 
most  difiicult  to  study,  for  which  many  facilities,  much 
time,  and  some  danger  are  indispensable.  The  voyager, 
passing  at  a  safe  distance,  really  knows  little  or  nothing 
of  one. 

Ten  o'clock,  and  only  twilight.  We  are  now  about 
to  put  up  note-book  and  painting-box,  and  join  our  Eng- 
lish companions  in  a  walk  up  and  down  our  little  deck. 
Notwithstanding  their  familiarity  with  icebergs,  they  ap- 
pear to  enjoy  them  with  as  keen  a  zest  as  we,  now  that 
they  are  brought  into  this  familiar  contact  with  them. 


FLIGHT    INTO    TWILLINGATE. 


101 


After  the  walk,  and  by  candle-light  in  the  cabin.  The 
wind  is  strengthening,  and  promises  a  gale.  The  black 
and  jagged  coast  of  Twillingate  island,  to  the  south, 
frowns  upon  us,  and  the  great  pyramid  berg  of  sunset 
awaits  us  close  at  hand.  For  some  time  past,  it  has 
borne  the  appearance  of  the  cathedral  of  Milan,  shorn  of 
all  its  pinnacles,  but  it  now  resumes  its  pyramidal  form, 
and  towers,  in  the  dusk  of  evening,  to  a  great  height. 
After  a  brief  consultation,  we  resolve  to  slip  into  the  har- 
bor of  Twillingate,  a  safe  retreat  from  the  coming  storm, 
and  there  pass  our  first  Sunday  out  .of  St.  Johns.  To 
dare  this  precipitous  coast,  haunted  with  icebergs,  and  a 
gale  blowing  right  on,  in  so  light  a  craft  as  ours,  would 
be  rash.  Much  as  I  wish  to  make  the  most  of  our  time, 
I  am  glad  to  find  that  we  are  making  harbor,  and  intend 
to  rest,  according  to  the  law. 

I  cannot  take  my  mind's  eye  from  the  brilliant  spec- 
tacle of  the  waves  in  conflict  with  the  iceberg.  I  still 
hear  the  surf  in  the  blue  chasms.  But  with  all  the  power 
of  its  charge,  it  is  the  merest  toy  to  the  great  arctic  mass, 
a  playful  kitten  on  the  paws  of  the  lion. 

After  ten,  and  after  prayer.  We  are  rolling  most  un- 
comfortably while  we  are  beating  towards  our  anchorage 
between  the  headlands  of  the  harbor.  It  is  midnight 
nearly,  and  yet  I  am  not  in  the  least  sleepy.     The  day  is 


102  FLIGHT    INTO    TWILLINGATE. 

SO  lengthy,  and  we  are  so  continually  stimulated  with  the 
grandeur  and  novelty  of  these  scenes  that  it  is  quite 
troublesome  to  sleep  at  all.  A  few  hours  of  slumber,  so 
thin  that  the  sounds  on  deck  easily  break  through  and 
wake  the  mind,  is  about  all  I  have.  We  are  coming 
about,  and  roll  down  almost  upon  the  vessel's  side.  The 
sails  are  loose,  and  roar  in  the  breeze.  The  anchor  drops, 
home  to  its  bed.  The  chain  rattles  and  runs  its  length. 
We  repose  in  safe  waters,  and  I  turn  in  thankfully  to  my 
berth. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE  SUNDAY   IN  TWILLING  ATE. -THE  MOENING  OF  THE  FOURTH. 

Monday  Mokning,  July  4,  1859.  We  were  roused 
from  our  slumbers  very  suddenly,  yesterday  morning,  by 
Mr.  Hutchinson,  in  a  loud  and  cheerful  voice,  telling  us 
the  pleasing  news  that  the  Church  Ship  was  at  anchor 
near  by,  and  that  he  had  exchanged  salutations  with  the 
Bishop.  His  vessel  had  lost  a  spar  in  the  same  squall 
that  drove  us  into  Cat  Harbor.  To  that  accident  we 
owed  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  in  Twillingate,  and  of 
passing  a  profitable  and  happy  Lord's  day.  The  wind 
was  blowing  a  perfect  gale,  and  roared  among  the  ever- 
green woods  on  the  surrounding  hills.  At  half-past  ten, 
the  Bishop's  boat  glided  alongside,  and  bore  us  ashore, 
from  which  we  walked  past  the  church,  through  the  assem- 
bling congregation,  to  the  house  of  the  Rector,  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Boone,  where  we  joined  the  Bishop  and  two  or 


104  THE    MOilNlNG   OV    THE    FOUliTH. 

three  of  the  leading  persons  of  the  island.  There  were 
the  regular  morning  and  evening  serviceSj  and  a  third 
service  at  night,  completed  though  by  good  strong  day- 
light. The  house  was  filled,  and  the  sermons  plain  and 
practical,  their  burden  being  repentance,  faith  in  Christ, 
and  obedience  to  his  law.  After  supper,  and  a  social 
hour  with  the  Kector  and  his  family,  we  returned  to  our 
vessels  respectively,  the  north-western  sky  still  white 
with  daylight,  and  the  thunder  of  the  ocean  brealdng 
with  impressive  grandeur  upon  the  solemn  repose,  into 
which  all  nature  seemed  gladly  to  have  fallen  after  the 
tempest. 

I  was  up  this  morning  at  an  early  hour,  and  away 
upon  the  hills  with  Mr.  Hutchinson  and  Master  William 
Boone,  a  fine  youth  of  fifteen,  for  our  guide  and  compan- 
ion. The  main  object  was  to  get  a  view  of  the  iceberg 
of  Saturday  evening.  To  my  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment, the  ocean  was  one  spotless  blue.  The  berg  had 
foundered,  or  gone  off  to  sea.  It  was  barely  possible  that 
it  lay  behind  a  lofty  headland,  beneath  which  we  passed 
in  making  the  harbor.  To  settle  a  question,  which  in 
some  measure  involved  the  pleasure  of  the  day,  we 
climbed  a  rocky  peak  beset  with  brushwood,  and  descried 
the  berg  close  in  upon  the  headland  apparently,  and,  as 
I  supposed,  rapidly  diminishing,  a  lengthy  procession  of 


THE  MORNING  OF  THE  FOURTH. 


105 


fragments  moving  up  the  coast.  Looking  south,  there 
was  unrolled  to  view,  spread  out  from  east  to  west,  the 
splendid  island  scenery  of  Notre  Dame  Bay,  already  de- 
scribed. A  single  reach  of  water,  with  islets  and  moun- 
tainous shores,  had  a  striking  resemblance  to  Lake  George. 
At  eight  o'clock,  we  were  again  on  board  and  ready 
for  the  boat,  which,  by  appointment,  was  to  take  our 
party  to  the  Hawk  for  a  farewell  breakfast  with  the 
Bishop.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  we  were  most  kindly 
and  pleasantly  entertained.  The  Bishop  was  pleased  to 
accompany  us  back  to  our  vessel,  and  to  give  us  his  part- 
ing blessing,  on  our  own  more  humble  deck.  Just  be- 
fore sailing.  Master  Boone  came  off  to  us  in  a  boat  with 
a  gift  of  milk  and  eggs,  and  a  nice,  fat  lamb.  By  ten 
o'clock,  both  the  Union  Jack  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
were  waving  on  high  in  a  south-west  breeze,  arid  we 
glided  through  the  narrows  toward  the  open  sea,  the 
chasms  of  the  precipices  heavily  charged  with  the  last 
winter's  snow. 


5* 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

THE    ICEBEKG    OF    TWILLINGATE. 

Twelve  o'clock.  The  day  we  celebrate.  Three 
cheers  !  Now  we  are  after  the  iceberg.  Upon  getting 
near,  we  find  it  grounded  in  fifty  fathoms  of  water,  ap- 
parently storm-worn,  and  much  the  worse  for  the  terrible 
buffeting  of  the  recent  gale.  Masses  of  the  huge,  glassy 
precipices  seem  to  have  been  blasted  off  within  the  last 
hour,  and  gone  away  in  a  lengthy  line  of  white  frag- 
ments upon  the  mighty  stream.  "We  are  now  bearing 
down  upon  it,  under  full  sail,  intending  to  pass  close 
under  it.     Our  good  angels  bear  us  company  as  we  pass. 

What  an  exquisite  specimen  of  nature's  handiwork 
it  looks  to  be,  in  the  blaze  of  noon  !  It  shines  like  pol- 
ished silver  dripping  with  dews.  The  painter  is  all  ready 
with  his  colors,  having  sketched  the  outlines  with  lead. 
The  water  streams  down  in  all  directions  in  little  rills  and 


I 


ICEBERG    OF    TWILLINGATE. 

falls,  glistening  in  the  light  like  molten  glass.  Veins 
of  gem-like  transparency,  blue  as  sapphire,  obliquely 
cross  the  opaque  white  of  the  prodigious  mass,  the  pre- 
cious beauty  of  which  no  language  can  picture.  Frag- 
ments lie  upon  the  slopes,  like  bowlders,  ready  to  be  dis- 
lodged at  any  moment,  and  launched  into  the  waves. 
Now  we  dash  across  his  cool  shadow,  and  take  his  breath. 
There  looks  to  be  the  permanency  of  adamant,  while  in 
reality  all  is  perishable  as  a  cloud,  and  charged  with 
awful  peril.  Imagine  the  impressive  grandeur  and  ter- 
rific character  of  cliffs,  broad  and  lofty  cliffs,  at  once  so 
sohd,  and  yet  so  liable  at  any  moment  to  burst  asunder 
into  countless  pieces.  We  all  know  the  danger,  and  I 
confess  that  I  feel  it  painfully,  and  wish  ourselves  at  a 
safe  distance. 

The  wind  increases,  and  all  is  alive  on  deck.  To  my 
relief,  we  have  fallen  off  to  leeward  beyond  all  harm. 
But  we  are  on  the  back  track,  and  mean  to  take  him 
again,  and  take  the  risques  also  of  his  terrible,  but  very 
beautiful  presence.  Now  we  run.  If  he  were  a  hostile 
castle,  he  would  open  upon  us  his  big  guns,  at  this  in- 
stant. Bravely  and  busily  the  waves  beat  under  the  hol- 
low of  the  long,  straight  water-line,  rushing  through  the 
low  archways  with  a  variety  of  noises, — roaring,  hissing, 
slapping,  cracking,  lashing  the  icy  vaults,  and  polishing 


108  THE    ICEBERG    OF    TWILLINGATE. 

and  mining  away  with  a  wild,  joyous  energy.  Poor 
Ishmael  of  the  sea  !  every  hand  and  every  force  is  against 
him.  If  he  move,  he  dashes  a  foot  against  the  deep 
down  stones.  While  he  reposes,  the  sun  pierces  his 
gleaming  helmet,  and  strikes  through  the  joints  of  his 
glassy  armor. 

In  the  seams  and  fissures  the  shadows  are  the  softest 
blue  of  the  skies,  and  as  plain  and  palpable  as  smoke. 
It  melts  at  every  pore,  and  streams  as  if  a  perpetually 
overflowing  fountain  were  upon  the  summit,  and  flashes 
and  scintillates  like  one  vast  brilliant.  Prongs  and  reefs 
of  ice  jutting  from  the  body  of  the  berg  below,  and  over 
which  we  pass,  give  the  water  that  emerald  clearness  so 
lovely  to  the  eye,  and  open  to  the  view  something  like 
the  fanciful  sea-green  caves.  We  now  lie  to,  under  the 
lee  side,  fearfully  close,  it  seems  to  me,  when  I  recollect 
the  warning  of  the  Bishop,  never,  on  any  account,  to  ven- 
ture near  an  iceberg.  Its  water-line,  under  which  the 
waves  disappear  in  a  lengthy,  piazza-like  cavern,  with  ex- 
plosive sounds,  is  certainly  a  remarkable  feature.  Occa- 
sional glimpses  unfold  the  polish,  the  colors,  and  the 
graceful  winding  of  sea-shells.  A  strong  current  in  con- 
nection with  the  wind  forces  us,  I  am  glad  to  say,  to  a 
more  safe  and  comfortable  distance.  The  last  ten  min- 
utes has  given  us  a  startling  illustration  of  the  dangers 


THE   ICEBERG    OF    TWILLINGATE.  109 

of  which  we  have  been  forewarned  :  a  crack  like  a  field- 
piece  was  followed  by  the  falling  of  ice,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  berg,  attended  with  a  sullen  roar. 

We  round  to,  and  take  the  breeze  in  our  faces.  The 
ice  is  up  the  wind,  square  before  us,  and  we  must  after  it 
by  a  tack  or  two.  The  stars  and  stripes  yet  float  aloft, 
and  seem  to  tremble  with  delight  as  we  sport  through 
these  splendid  hours  of  Freedom's  holiday.  The  berg 
with  its  dazzling  white^  and  dove-colored  shadows, — the 
electric  breeze, — the  dark  sea  with  its  draperies  of  spark- 
ling foam,  north,  east,  south,  out  to  the  pure  azure  of  the 
encircling  sky, — the  sunshine,  that  bright  spirit  and  cease- 
less miracle  of  the  firmament, — the  white-winged  vessel 
boxing  the  billow,  now  rolling  on  black  and  cloud-like, 
now  falling  off  with  the  spotless  purity  of  a  snow-drift, — 
the  battle  of  the  surges  and  the  solid  cliffs,  all  conspire 
to  enliven  and  excite. 

While  the  painter  is  busy,  overlooked  by  Mr.  Hutch- 
inson, and  I  lean  over  the  bow  and  scribble  in  my 
note-book,  a  sailor  comes  forward  and  gazes  upon  the  ice- 
berg as  if  he,  too,  was  looking  at  something  new.  He  has 
passed  them  by,  time  out  of  mind,  either  idly  or  with  dis- 
like, as  things  to  be  shunned,  and  not  to  be  looked  back 
at  when  safely  weathered.  Now  that  his  attention  is 
called,  he  finds  that  this  useless  mass,  tumbling  about  in 


110  THE    ICEBERG   OF    TWILLINGATE. 

the  path  of  mariners,  is  truly  a  most  wonderful  creation. 
Like  all  the  larger  structures  of  nature,  these  crystalline 
vessels  are  freighted  with  God's  power  and  glory,  and 
must  be  reverently  and  thoughtfully  studied,  to  "  see  into 
the  hfe  of  them/'  The  common  clouds,  which  unnoticed 
drop  their  shadows  upon  our  dwellings,  and  spot  the  land- 
scape, are  found  to  be  wonderful  by  those  alone  who 
watch  them  patiently  and  thoughtfully.  "  The  witchery 
of  the  soft  blue  sky  did  never  melt  into  the  poet's  heart ; 
he  never  felt  the  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky"  but  from 
silent,  loving  study. 

Captain  Knight  backs  the  sails,  and  we  hold  on  near 
enough  to  the  ice  to  see  the  zone  of  emerald  water,  a 
fearfully  close  proximity.  Look  up  to  those  massy  folds 
and  wreaths  of  icy  drapery,  all  flashing  in  the  sun  !  See 
that  gigantic  wing,  not  unlike  the  pictured  wings  of  an- 
gels, unfolded  from  one  of  the  vast  shoulders,  and  spread 
upon  the  high  air.  As  the  wind  sweeps  over  and  falls 
upon  us,  we  feel  an  icy  chilliness.  Beyond  a  very  short 
distance,  however,  we  are  unable  to  perceive  the  smallest 
influence. 

We  are  now  to  the  leeward,  half  a  mile  or  so,  and  are 
watching  the  Captain,  who  has  gone  with  the  boat  and  a 
couple  of  men  to  gather  ice  out  of  the  drift,  which 
stretches  from  the  berg  in  a  broken  line  for  two  miles  or 


THE    ICEBERG   OF    TWILLINGATE. 


Ill 


more.  Portions  of  this  have  fallen  within  the  last  hour, 
keeping  up  a  kind  of  artillery  discharge,  very  agreeable 
to  hear  at  this  distance,  and  quite  in  harmony  with  the 
day  at  home.  They  have  struck  the  ice,  a  mile  off,  and 
the  chips  sparkle  in  the  sunshine  as  they  ply  the  axe. 
As  they  return,  we  drop  down  the  wind  to  meet  them. 
Here  they  come  with  a  cart-load  of  the  real  arctic  alabas- 
ter, the  very  same,  I  have  no  question,  that  hung  an  hour 
ago  as  one  of  the  shining  crags  of  the  lofty  ice-cliff.  And 
now,  with  all  sail  spread,  and  a  spirited  breeze,  away  to 
the  north-west  for  Cape  St.  John. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

THE  FEEEDOM  OF  THE  SEAS  ONCE  MOEE.— A  BUMPER  TO  THE  QUEEN 
AND  PEESIDENT. 

The  waves  are  crisp  with  a  snowy  mane,  and  the 
rocky  shores  of  Twillingate  are  draped  with  splendid 
lights  and  shadows.  While  the  seams  and  surfaces  of 
the  cliffs  are  strikingly  plain  in  the  sunlight,  they  are 
dark  as  caverns  in  the  shade.  This  gives  the  coast  a 
wonderfully  broken,  wild,  and  picturesque  look. 

Once  more  the  sea  "  is  all  before  us  where  to  choose." 
The  joy  of  this  freedom  is  utterly  inexpressible,  although, 
in  consideration  of  the  day,  we — we  Yankees — occasion- 
ally hurra  right  heartily.  But  no  words  can  do  justice 
to  the  delightful  emotions  of  moments  such  as  these. 
"  Messmates,  hear  a  brother  sailor  sing  the  dangers  of  the 
sea,''  runs  the  old  song.  None  that  I  have  ever  heard  or 
read  express  at  all  the  real  pleasure  of  its /reedom.     The 


THE    FREEDOM   OF    THE    SEAS   ONCE    MORE.  113 

reedom  of  the  seas  !  If  any  great  city  council  would  do 
a  man  of  feeling  a  noble  pleasure,  let  them  vote  him  that. 
A  lonely  isle  of  crystalline  brightness,  all  the  way  from 
Melville  Bay,  most  likely,  gleams  in  the  north-east. 
Pale  and  solitary,  like  some  marble  mausoleum,  the  ice- 
berg of  Twillingate  stands  off  in  the  southern  waters. 
After  all,  how  feeble  is  man  in  the  presence  of  these  arc- 
tic wonders  !  With  all  his  skill,  intelligence  and  power, 
he  passes,  either  on  the  sunny  or  the  shady  side,  closely 
at  his  peril,  only  in  safety  at  a  distance  too  great  to 
satisfy  his  curiosity,  and  gazes  at  their  greatness  and 
their  splendor,  and  thinks  and  feels,  records  his  thoughts 
and  feelings,  draws  their  figure  and  paints  their  com- 
plexion, but  may  no  more  lay  his  hand  upon  them  than 
the  Jew  of  old  might  lay  his  hand  upon  the  ark  of  the 
covenant.  He  may  do  it  and  live,  do  it  twice  or  thrice, 
and  then  he  may  perish  for  his  temerity.  There  now  re- 
poses, amid  the  currents  and  billows  of  the  ocean,  the 
huge,  polar  structure,  which  has  been  to  us  an  object  of 
the  liveliest  interest  and  wonder ;  its  bright  foundations 
fifty  fathoms  in  the  deep  ;  an  erection  suggestive  of  the 
skill  and  strength  of  the  Creator ;  with  a  mystery  en- 
veloping its  story,  its  conception,  birth  and  growth,  its 
native  land,  the  hour  of  its  departure,  its  strange  and 
labyrinthine  voyage.     While  the  body  of  this  building- 


114   A  BUMPEK  TO  THE  QUEEN  AND  PRESIDENT. 

of-the-elements  sleeps  below,  and  only  its  gables  and 
towers  glow  and  melt  in  the  brightness  of  these  summer 
days,  yet  is  it  as  dissolvable  as  the  clouds  from  which  it 
originally  fell.  It  is  but  the  clouds  condensed  and  crys- 
tallized. A  column  of  vapor,  mainly  invisible,  perpetu- 
ally ascends  into  its  native  heavens,  while  the  atmos- 
phere, and  the  warm,  briny  currents  melt  and  wear,  at 
every  imaginable  point  of  the  vast  surface.  Pass  a  few 
sunny  weeks,  and  all  wiU  be  melted,  and,  like  a  snow- 
flake,  lost  in  the  immensity  of  waters. 

Still  the  flags  wave  above.  We  fill  our  glasses  with 
iceberg-water,  and  drink  with  cheers  to  the  Queen  and 
President.  As  the  breeze  dies  away  in  the  long,  long 
afternoon,  and  we  roll  lazily  on  the  glassy  swells,  the 
painter  and  I,  the  poorest  of  sailors,  lapse  into  sea-sick- 
ness, and  go  below. 


I 


CHAPTEE  XXVI. 

GULL  ISLAND.— THE  ICEBEEG3  OP  CAPE  BT.  JOHN. 

Tuesday,  July  5.  Off  Cape  St.  John,  with  fog  and 
head  winds.  We  are  weary  of  this  fruitless  beating 
about,  and  resolve  to  put  into  smooth  water  for  the  sake 
of  relief  from  sea-sickness.  While  our  EngHsh  guests 
seem  to  enjoy  the  breakfast,  we  have  gone  no  further  than 
to  sip  a  little  tea,  take  a  few  turns  on  deck  in  the  chilly 
morning  air,  and  return  to  the  cabin,  where  I  pencil 
these  notes. 

There  is  a  dome-shaped  berg  before  us  in  the  mist, 
but  not  of  sufficient  beauty  in  the  dull  gray  atmosphere 
to  attract  attention.  Exclamations  of  our  friends  on 
deck  have  brought  me  up  to  look  at  the  ice  as  we  pass  it, 
distant,  it  may  be,  five  hundred  yards.  It  bears  a  strange 
resemblance  to  a  balloon  lying  on  its  side  in  a  collapsed 


116  THE    ICEBERGS   OF    CAPE    ST.   JOHN. 

condition.  It  has  recently  undergone  some  heavy  dis- 
ruptions, and  rolled  so  far  over  as  to  bring  its  late  water- 
line,  a  deep  and  polished  fissure,  nearly  across  the  top 
of  it. 

There  is  a  promise  of  clear  weather.  The  clouds,  to 
our  delight,  are  breaking,  and  giving  us  peeps  of  the  sunny 
azure  far  above.  The  Cape  is  in  full  view,  a  promontory 
of  shaggy  precipices,  suggestive  of  all  the  fiends  of  Pande- 
monium, rather  than  the  lovely  Apostle,  whose  name  has 
been  gibbeted  on  the  black  and  dismal  crags.  The  salt 
of  that  saintly  name  cannot  save  it.  Nay,  it  is  better 
fitted  to  spoil  the  saint.  Cape  St.  John  !  Better,  Cape 
"  Moloch,  Horrid  King,"  or  some  other  demon  of  those 
that  figure  in  the  dark  Miltonic  scenes.  It  is  terribly 
awful  and  impressive.  Our  lamb,  poor  innocent,  seems 
to  feel  lonely  under  the  frown  of  a  coast  so  inhospitable 
and  savage,  and  comes  bleating  around  us  as  if  for  sym- 
pathy. The  wind  is  cold  and  bracing,  sweeping  alike 
the  sea  and  the  sky  of  all  fog  and  clouds,  and  driving  us 
to  heavy  winter  clothing. 

As  we  bear  down  toward  the  Cape,  we  pass  Gull  Isle, 
a  mere  pile  of  naked  rocks  delicately  wreathed  with  lace- 
like mists.  Imagine  the  last  hundred  feet  of  Corway 
Peak,  the  very  finest  of  the  New  Hampshire  mountain 
tops,  pricldng  above  the  waves,  and  you  will  see  this 


I 

I 


THE  ICEBERGS  OF  CAPE  ST.  JOHN.        117 

little  outpost  and  breakwater  of  Cape  St.  John.  All 
things  have  their  uses.  Even  this  bone  of  the  earth, 
picked  of  all  vegetable  growth  and  beauty,  and  flung  into 
the  deep,  has  the  marrow  of  goodness  in  it  to  a  degree 
that  invites  a  multitude  of  God's  fair  creatures  to  make 
it  their  estate  and  dwelling-place.  Gulls  with  cimetar- 
like  pinions,  cut  and  slash  the  air  in  all  directions. 
Pretty  little  sea-pigeons  fly  to  and  fro,  flying  off  with 
whistling  wings  in  straight  lines,  and  flying  back,  full  of 
news,  and  full  of  alarm. 

A  grand  iceberg  is  before  us,  remarkable,  in  this  par- 
ticular light,  for  its  pure,  white  surface.  A  snow-drift, 
with  its  icy  enamel,  after  a  silver  thaw,  might  be  taken 
as  a  model  of  its  complexion.  This  is  a  berg  evidently 
of  more  varied  fortunes  than  any  we  have  yet  seen.  It  is 
crossed  and  recrossed  with  old  water-lines,  every  one  of 
which  is  cut  at  right  angles  with  its  own  system  of  lines, 
formed  by  the  perpendicular  dripping.  It  is  ploughed 
and  fluted  and  scratched  deeply  in  all  possible  directions. 
At  this  very  moment  a  new  system  of  lines  is  rapidly 
forming  by  the  copiously  descending  drip,  over-streaming 
all  those  made  when  the  berg  had  other  perpendiculars. 
Any  large  fall  of  ice,  for  example,  from  the  opposite  side, 
would  bow  the  berg  toward  us,  sinking  the  present  sea- 
line  on  this  side,  and  lifting  it  on  the  other.     In  nearly 


118  THE    ICEBERGS   OF    CAPE    ST.  JOHN. 

every  case  the  berg,  when  it  rolls,  loses  its  old  horizontal 
position,  and  settles  in  a  new  one.  Immediately  a  new 
horizon-line,  if  it  may  so  be  called,  with  its  countless  ver- 
tical ones,  of  course,  instantly  commences  forming,  to  be 
followed  by  a  similar  process,  at  each  successive  roll  of 
the  berg,  unto  the  end.  There  are  draperies  of  white 
sea-shell-like  ice,  with  streaks  of  shadow  in  their  great 
folds,  which  rival  the  softest  azure.  Indicative  of  the 
projections  of  the  submarine  ice,  the  light-green  water 
extends  out  in  long,  radiating  points,  a  kind  of  eme- 
rald spangle,  with  its  bright  central  diamond  on  the  pur- 
ple sea. 

It  is  a  wonderfully  magnificent  sight  to  see  an  almost 
black  wave  roll  against  an  iceberg,  and  instantly  change 
in  its  entire  length,  hundreds  of  feet,  into  that  delicate 
green.  Where  the  swell  strikes  obliquely,  it  reaches  high, 
and  runs  along  the  face,  sweeping  like  a  satellite  of  loveli- 
ness in  merry  revolutions  round  its  glittering  orb.  Like 
cumulous  clouds,  icebergs  are  perpetually  mimicking  the 
human  face.  This  fine  crystal  creature,  by  a  change  in 
our  position,  becomes  a  gigantic  bust  of  poet  or  philoso- 
pher, leaning  back  and  gazing  with  a  fixed  placidity  into 
the  skies.  In  the  brilliant  noon,  portions  of  it  glisten 
like  a  glassy  waterfall.  The  cold,  dead  white,  the  subtle 
greens,  the  blues,  shadows  of  the  softest  slate,  all  contrast 


CVJ 


THE  ICEBERGS  OF  CAPE  ST.  JOHN.        119 

with  the  flashing  brightness  in  a  way  most  exquisite  to 
behold.  True  to  all  the  forms  of  nature  that  swell  to  the 
subHme,  an  iceberg  grows  upon  the  mind  astonishingly. 
On  the  boundless  plains  of  water,  of  course,  it  is  the 
merest  molehill :  in  itself,  it  has  the  lonely  grandeur  of  a 
broad  precipice  in  the  mountains. 

Foremost  of  several  bergs,  now  hovering  about  the 
Cape,  is  one  of  greater  magnitude  than  any  we  have  pre- 
viously met.  It  is,  on  this  front,  a  broad  and  lofty  pre- 
cipice, very  nearly  resembling  the  finest  statue-marble, 
newly  broken.  It  is  losing  its  upper  crags,  every  now 
and  then,  and  vibrating  very  grandly.  At  short  intervals, 
we  hear  sharp  reports,  like  those  of  brass  ordnance,  fol- 
lowed by  the  rough,  rumbling  crash  of  the  descending 
ice,  and  the  dull  roar  of  its  final  plunge  into  the  ocean. 
After  this  awful  burial  of  its  dead,  with  such  grand 
honors,  a  splendid  regiment  of  waves  retreats  from  the 
mournful  scene,  in  a  series  of  concentric  circles,  rivalling 
the  finest  surf  that  rolls  in  upon  the  sand.  It  is  the  very 
flower  of  the  ocean  cavalry.  Under  its  fierce  and  bril- 
liant charge,  an  ordinary  ship's  boat  would  go  down, 
almost  to  a  certainty.  It  is  what  we  have  been  most 
carefuUy  warned  to  avoid.  This  fine  iceberg  presents,  I 
fancy,  much  the  same  appearance  it  had  in  the  Greenland 
waters.     Its  water-line,  which  is  the  only  one  visible,  is 


120  THE    ICEBERGS    OF    CAPE    ST.   JOHN. 

not  less  than  fifteen  feet  deep,  and  rises  and  falls,  in 
its  ponderous  rockings  back  and  forth,  not  more  than 
twenty  feet,  so  vast  the  bulk  below.  I  have  little  doubt 
that  the  Alpine  slopes  and  summits  are  its  primitive 
surface. 


CHAPTEK  XXVII. 

THE  SPLENDID  ICEBEEGS  OF  CAPE  ST.  JOHN. 

We  are  making  a  round  of  calls  on  all  the  icebergs 

of  Cape  St.  John,  painting,  sketching,  and  pencilling  as 

we  go.     Our  calls  are  cut  short  for  the  want  of  wind,  and 

we  lie  becalmed  on  the  low,  broad  swells,  majestically 

rolling  in  upon  the  Cape,  only  a  mile  to  the  south-west. 

Captain  Knight  is  evidently  unquiet  at  this  proximity. 

A  powerful  current  is  setting  rapidly  in,  carrying  us  over 

depths  too  great  for  our  cables,  up  to  the  very  cliffs.     If 

the  adventurous  mariner,  who  first  sighted  this  bold  and 

H     forward  headland,  was  bent  upon  christening  it  by  an 

apostolic  name,  why  did  he  not  call  it  Cape  St.  Peter  ? 

All  in  all,  it  is  certainly  the  finest  coast  scenery  I  have 

ever  seen  ;  and  Captain  Knight  assures  us  it  is  the  very 

finest  on  the  eastern  shore  of  Newfoundland.     It  is  a 

black,  jagged  wall,  often  four,  and  even  ^ve  hundred  feet 
0 


I 


122         THE  SPLENDID  ICEBERGS  OF  CAPE  ST."  JOHN. 

in  height,  with  a  five-mile  front,  and  the  deep  sea  close 
in  to  the  rock,  without  a  beach,  and  almost  without  a 
foothold.  This  stupendous,  natural  wharf  stretches  back 
into  the  south-west  toward  the  main .  land,  widening  very- 
little  for  twenty  miles  or  more,  dividing  the  large  expanse 
of  White  Bay  on  the  west  from  the  larger  expanse  of 
Notre  Dame  Bay  on  the  east  and  south,  the  fine  ^gean, 
before  mentioned,  with  its  multitudinous  islands,  of  which 
we  get  not  the  least  notion  from  any  of  our  popular  maps. 
Such  is  a  kind  of  charcoal  sketch  of  Cape  St.  John, 
toward  which,  in  spite  of  all  we  can  yet  do,  we  are  slowly 
drifting.  Unless  there  be  power  in  our  boat,  manned  by 
all  the  crew  pulling  across  the  current,  with  the  Captain 
on  the  bow  cracking  them  up  with  his  fine,  firm  voice, 
I  do  not  see  why  we  are  not  in  the  greatest  danger  of 
drifting  ashore.  It  is  possible  that  there  is  a  breath  of 
wind  under  the  cliffs,  by  which  we  might  escape  round 
into  still  water.  With  all  the  quiet  of  the  ocean,  I  see 
the  white  surf  spring  up  against  the  precipices.  In  the 
strongest  gales  of  the  Atlantic,  the  surges  here  must  be 
perfectly  terrific,  and  equal  to  any  thing  of  the  kind  on 
the  globe.  The  great  Baffin  current,  sweeping  past  with 
force  and  velocitj^  makes  this  a  point  of  singular  danger. 
To  be  wrecked  here,  with  all  gentleness,  would  be  pretty 
sure  destruction.     In  a  storm,  the  chance  of  escape  would 


THE  SPLENDID  ICEBERGS  OF  CAPE  ST.  JOHN.    123 

be  about  the  same,  as  in  the  rapids  of  Niagara.  After 
all,  there  is  a  fine  excitement  in  this  rather  perilous  play 
with  the  sublime  and  desolate.  Would  any  believe  it  ? 
I  am  actually  sea-sick,  and  that  in  the  full  enjoyment  of 
this  grandeur  of  adamant  and  ice.  I  find  I  am  not  alone. 
The  painter  with  his  live  colors  falls  to  the  same  level  of 
suffering  with  the  man  of  the  dull  lead-pencil  and  the 
note-book.  A  slight  breeze  has  relieved  us  of  all  anxiety, 
and  all  necessity  of  further  effort  to  row  out  of  danger. 
We  are  moving  perceptibly  up  the  wide  current,  and 
propose  to  escape  to  the  north  as  soon  as  the  wind  shaU 
favor. 

We  have  just  passed  a  fragment  of  some  one  of  the 
surrounding  icebergs  that  has  amused  us.  It  bore  the 
resemblance  of  a  huge  polar  bear,  reposing  upon  the  base 
of  an  inverted  cone  with  a  twist  of  a  sea-shell,  and  whirl- 
ing slowly  round  and  round.  The  ever-attending  green 
water,  with  its  aerial  clearness,  enabled  us  to  see  its 
spiral  folds  and  horns  as  they  hung  suspended  in  the  deep. 
The  bear,  a  ten-foot  mass  in  tolerable  proportion,  seemed 
to  be  regularly  beset  by  a  pack  of  hungry  little  swells. 
First,  one  would  take  him  on  the  haunch,  then  whip  back 
into  the  sea  over  his  tail  and  between  his  legs.  Presently 
a  bolder  swell  would  rise  and  pitch  into  his  back  with  a 
ferocity  that   threatened  instant  destruction.      It  only 


124    THE  SPLENDID  ICEBERGS  OF  CAPE  ST.'  JOHN. 

washed  his  satin  fleece  the  whiter.  While  Bruin  was 
turning  to  look  the  daring  assailant  in  the  face,  the  rogue 
had  pitched  himself  back  into  his  cave.  No  sooner  that, 
than  a  very  buU-dog  of  a  billow  would  attack  him  in  the 
face.  The  serenity  with  which  the  impertinent  assault 
was  borne  was  complete.  It  was  but  a  puff  of  silvery 
dust,  powdering  his  mane  with  fresher  brightness.  Noth- 
ing would  be  left  of  bull  but  a  little  froth  of  all  the 
foam  displayed  in  the  fierce  onset.  He  too  would  turn 
and  scud  into  his  hiding-place.  Persistent  little  waves  ! 
After  a  dash  singly,  all  around,  upon  the  common  enemy, 
as  if  by  some  silent  agreement  under  water,  they  would 
all  rush  on,  at  once,  with  their  loudest  roar  and  shaggiest 
foam,  and  overwhelm  poor  bear  so  completely,  that  noth- 
ing less  might  be  expected  than  to  behold  him  broken 
into  his  four  quarters,  and  floating  helplessly  asunder. 
Mistaken  spectators  !  Although,  by  his  momentary  roll- 
ing and  plunging,  he  was  evidently  aroused,  yet  neither 
Bruin  nor  his  burrow  were  at  all  the  worse  for  all  the  wear 
and  washing.  The  deep  fluting,  the  wrinkled  folds  and 
cavities,  over  and  through  which  the  green  and  silvery 
water  rushed  back  into  the  sea,  rivalled  the  most  exqui- 
site sculpture.  And  nature  not  only  gives  her  marbles, 
with  the  finest  lines,  the  most  perfect  lights  and  shades, 
she  colors  them  also.     She  is  no  monochromist,  but  poly- 


THE  SPLENDID  ICEBEKGS  OF  CAPE  ST.  JOHN.    125 

chi'oic,  imparting  such  touches  of  dove-tints,  emerald  and 
azure,  as  she  bestows  upon  her  gems  and  her  skies. 

We  are  bearing  up  under  the  big  berg  as  closely  as 
we  dare.  To  our  delight,  what  we  have  been  wishing, 
and  watching  for,  is  actually  taking  place  :  loud  explo- 
sions with  heavy  falls  of  ice,  followed  by  the  cataract-like 
roar,  and  the  high,  thin  seas,  wheeling  away  beautifully 
crested  with  sparkhng  foam.  If  it  is  possible,  imagine 
the  effect  upon  the  beholder  :  This  precipice  of  ice,  with 
tremendous  cracking,  is  falling  toward  us  with  a  majestic 
and  awful  motion.  Down  sinks  the  long  water-line  into 
the  black  deep  ;  down  go  the  porcelain  crags,-  and  galle- 
ries of  glassy  sculptures,  a  speechless  and  awful  bap- 
tism. Now  it  pauses  and  returns :  up  rise  sculptures 
and  crags  streaming  with  the  shining,  white  brine  ;  up 
comes  the  great,  encircling  line,  followed  by  things  new 
and  strange,  crags,  niches,  balconies  and  .caves  ;  up,  up 
it  rises,  higher  and  higher  still,  crossing  the  very  breast 
of  the  grand  ice,  and  all  bathed  with  rivulets  of  gleaming 
foam.  Over  goes  the  summit,  ridge,  pinnacles  and  all, 
standing  off  obliquely  in  the  opposite  air.  Now  it  pauses 
in  its  upward  roll :  back  it  comes  again,  cracking,  crack- 
ing, cracking,  "groaning  out  harsh  thunder"  as  it  comes, 
and  threatening  to  burst,  like  a  mighty  bomb,  into  mil- 
lions of  glittering  fragments.     The  spectacle  is  terrific 


126    THE  SPLENDID  ICEBERGS  OF  CAPE  ST.  JOHN. 

and  magnificent.  Emotion  is  irrepressible,  and  peals  of 
wild  hurra  burst  forth  from  all. 

The  effect  of  the  sky-line  of  this  berg  is  marvellously 
beautiful.  An  overhanging  precipice  on  this  side,  and 
steep  slopes  on  the  other,  give  a  thin  and  notched  ridge, 
with  an  almost  knife-like  sharpness,  and  the  transparency 
and  tint  of  sapphire,  a  miracle  of  beauty  along  the  heights 
of  the  dead  white  ice,  over  which  the  sight  darts  into  the 
spotless  ultramarine  of  the  heavens.  On  the  right  and 
left  shoulders  of  the  berg,  the  slopes  fall  off  steeply  this 
way,  having  the  folds  and  the  strange  purity  peculiar 
to  snow-drifts.  One  who  has  dwelt  pleasantly  upon 
draperies  in  marble, — upon  those  lovely  swellings  and 
depressions, — those  sweet  surfaces  and  lines  of  grace  and 
beauty  of  the  human  form,  perfected  in  the  works  of 
sculptors,  will  appreciate  the  sentiment  of  the  ices  to 
which  I  point. , 

At  the  risque  of  being  thought  over-sentimental  and 
extravagant,  I  will  say  something  more  of  the  great  iceberg 
of  Cape  St.  John,  now  that  we  are  retiring  from  it,  and 
giving  it  our  last  look.  Of  all  objects  an  iceberg  is  in  the 
liighest  degree  multiform  in  its  effects.  Changeable  in  its 
colors  as  the  streamers  of  the  northern  sky,  it  will  also 
pass  from  one  shape  to  another  with  singular  rapidity. 
As  we  recede,  the  upper  portions  of  the  solid  ice  have  a 


THE  SPLENDID  ICEBERGS  OF  CAPE   ST.  JOHN.         127 

light  and  aerial  effect,  a  description  of  which  is  simply 
impossible.  Peaks  and  spires  rise  out  of  the  strong  and 
apparently  unchanging  base  with  the  light  activity  of 
flame.     A  mighty  structure  on  fire,  all  in  ice  ! 

Cape  St.  John  !— As  we  slowly  glide  away  toward  the 
north,  and  gaze  back  upon  its  everlasting  cliffs,  confront- 
ed by  these  wonderful  icebergs,  the  glorious  architecture 
of  the  polar  night,  I  think  of  the  apostle's  vision  of  per- 
manent and  shining  walls,  "  the  heavenly  Jerusalem," 
"the  city  which  hath  foundations,  whose  builder  and 
maker  is  God." 

"  The  good  south  wind  "  blows  at  last  with  strength, 
and  we  speed  on  our  way  over  the  great  ocean,  darkly 
shining  in  all  its  violet  beauty.  Pricking  above  the  hori- 
zon, the  peak  of  a  berg  sparkles  in  the  glowing  daylight 

of  the  west  like  a  silvery  star.     C has  painted  with 

great  effect,  notwithstanding  the  difficulty  of  lines  and 
touches  from  the  motion  of  the  vessel.  If  one  is  curious 
about  the  troubles  of  painting  on  a  little  coaster,  lightly 
ballasted,  dashing  forward  frequently  under  a  press  of 
sail,  with  a  short  sea,  I  would  recommend  him  to  a  good, 
stout  swing.  While  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  smooth  and 
sickening  vibrations,  let  him  spread  his  pallet,  ai-range 
his  canvas,  and  paint  a  pair  of  colts  at  their  gambols  in 
some  adjacent  field. 


128    THE  SPLENDID  ICEBERGS  OF  CAPE  ST.  JOHN. 

The  novelty  and  grandeur  of  these  Newfoundland 
seas  and  shores  have  busied  the  pencil  so  completely  as  to 
exclude  much  interesting  matter,  especially  such  as  Cap- 
tain Knight  is  continually  contributing  in  his  conversa- 
tion. As  we  have  been,  for  some  time  past,  crossing  the 
fields  of  the  sealer,  and  as  the  Captain  himself  has  a 
large  experience  in  that  adventurous  business,  seals  and 
sealing  have  legitimately  a  small  place,  at  least,  in  this 
recital. 


CHAPTEK  XXVIII. 

THE   SEAL   FIELDS.-SEALS   AND    6EALING.-CAPTAIN    KNIGHT'S 
SHIPWEECK. 

The  sealers  from  St.  Johns,  for  example,  start  upon 
tlieir  northern  voyage,  early  in  March,  fallmg  in  with 
both  ice  and  seals  very  frequently  off  the  Capes  of  Con- 
ception and  Trinity  Bays.  The  ice,  a  snowy  white,  Kes 
in  vast  fields  upon  the  ocean,  cracked  in  all  ways,  and 
broken  into  cakes  or  "  pans  "  of  all  shapes  and  sizes.  At 
one  time,  it  resembles  a  boundless  pavement  dappled 
with  dark  water,  into  which  vessels  work  their  way,  and 
upon  which  the  seals  travel :  at  another  time,  without 
the  displacement  of  a  block,  this  grand  pavement  of  the 
sea  rolls  with  its  billows,  rising  and  falling  with  such 
perfect  order,  that  the  men  run  along  the  ridges  and 
down  ihe  hollows  of  the  swells  in  safety.     But  this  order 

goes  into  confusion  in  a  storm,  presenting  in  the  succeed- 
6* 


130  SEALS   AND    SEALING. 

ing  calm  a  waste  of  ruins,  masses  of  ice  thrown  into  a 
thousand  forms.  In  the  long,  starry  nights,  or  the  moon- 
light, or  in  the  magic  brilliancy  of  the  aurora-borealis, 
the  splendor  of  the  scene, — dark  avenues  and  parks  of 
sleeping  water,  the  silent  glittering  of  mimic  palaces  and 
temples,  sparkling  minarets  and  towers,  is  almost  super- 
natural. As  will  be  seen  at  once,  both  the  beauties  and 
the  perils  incident  to  the  ice,  in  calm  and  tempest,  enter 
largely  into  the  experience  of  the  sealers.  To-night, 
their  vessel  may  repose  in  a  fairy  land  or  fairy  sea,  of 
which  poets  and  painters  may  dream  without  the  least 
suspicion  that  any  mortal  ever  beholds  the  reality,  and 
to-morrow  night,  it  may  encounter  the  double  dangers  of 
ice  and  storm. 

Upon  the  fields  just  mentioned,  the  seals  come  from 
the  ocean,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  and  bring  forth  their 
young  by  thousands.  There,  while  their  parents  come 
and  go,  the  young  things  lie  on  the  ice,  fattening  on  their 
mothers'  milk  with  marvellous  rapidity,  helpless  and 
white  as  lambs,  with  expressive  eyes  almost  human,  and 
with  the  piteous  cries  of  little  children.  In  March, 
about  as  soon  as  the  voyagers  can  reach  them,  they  are  of 
suitable  age  and  size  for  capture,  which  is  effected  by  a 
blow  on  the  head  with  a  club,  a  much  more  compassion- 
ate way  of  killing  these  poor  lambs  of  the  sea  than  by  the 


CAPTAIN    knight's   SHIPWRECK.  131 

gun,  which  is  much  used  in  taking  the  old  ones.  Occa- 
sionally they  are  drawn  bodily  to  the  vessel,  but  usually 
sMnned  on  the  spot,  the  fat,  two  or  three  inches  deep, 
coining  off  from  the  tough,  red  carcass  with  the  hide, 
which,  with  several  others  is  made  into  a  bundle,  dragged 
in  by  a  rope,  and  thrown  upon  deck  to  cool.  After 
a  little,  they  are  packed  away  as  solidly  as  possible,  to 
remain  until  discharged  in  port.  Five,  six,  and  seven 
thousand  skins  are  freq[uently  thus  laid  down,  loading 
the  vessel  to  the  water's  edge.  An  accident  to  which  the 
lucky  sealer  was  formerly  liable,  was  the  melting  of  the 
fet  into  oil  from  the  sliding  of  the  skins,  caused  by  the 
rolling  of  the  ship  in  stormy  weather.  To  such  an  ex- 
tent was  this  dissolving  process  sometimes  carried,  as  to 
reduce  the  cargo  to  skins  and  oil,  half  filling  cabin  and 
forecastle,  driving  the  crew  on  deck,  rendering  the  vessel 
unmanageable  in  rough  weather,  and  requiring  it  to  be 
abandoned.  This  is  now  securely  guarded  against  by 
numbers  of  upright  posts,  which  crib,  and  hold  the  cargo 
from  shifting. 

Several  years  ago.  Captain  Knight,  while  beset  with 
the  kind  of  ice,  described  as  so  beautiful  in  the  bright 
nights,  encountered,  with  many  others,  a  terrific  gale,  to 
this  day,  a  mournful  remembrance  to  many  people.  If 
I  am  not  mistaken,  some  eighty  sail  were  wrecked,  at  the 


132  CAPTAIN    knight's    SHIPWRECK. 

time,  along  these  iron  shores.  In  fact,  very  few  that 
were  out  escaped.  Several  crews  left  their  vessels  and  fled 
to  land  over  the  rolling  ice-fields,  the  more  prudent  way. 
A  forlorn  hope  was  to  put  to  sea,  the  course  adopted  by 
Captain  Knight.  By  skill  and  coolness  he  slipped  from 
the  teeth  of  destruction,  and  in  the  face  of  the  tempest 
escaped  into  the  broad  ocean.  It  was  but  an  escape, 
just  the  next  thing  to  a  wreck.  One  single  sea,  the 
largest  he  ever  experienced  in  numerous  voyages  along 
this  dreadful  coast,  swept  his  deck,  and  nearly  made  a 
wreck  of  him  in  a  moment,  carrying  overboard  one  man, 
nine  boats,  every  sealing-boat  on  board,  and  every  thing 
else  that  could  be  wrenched  away.  Another  gigantic 
roller  of  the  kind  would  have  destroyed  him.  But  he 
•triumphed,  and  returned  to  St.  Johns  in  time  to  refit, 
and  start  again. 

Captain  Knight  was  less  fortunate,  no  later  than  last 
April,  when  he  lost  a  fine  brig  with  a  costly  outfit  for  a 
sealing  voyage,  under  the  following  circumstances :  Im- 
mersed in  the  densest  fog,  and  driven  by  the  gale,  he  was 
running  down  a  narrow  lane  or  opening  in  the  ice,  when 
the  shout  of  breakers  ahead,  and  the  crash  of  the  bows 
upon  a  reef,  came  in  the  same  moment.  Instantly,  over- 
board they  sprang,  forty  men  of  them,  and  saw  their 
strong  and  beautiful  vessel  almost  immediately  buried  in 


CAPTAIN    knight's    SHIPWRECK.  133 

the  ocean.  There  they  stood,  on  the  heaving  field  of  ice, 
gazing  in  mournful  silence  upon  the  great,  black  billows  as 
they  rolled  on,  one  after  another,  bursting  in  thunder  on 
the  sunken  cliffs,  a  tremendous  display  of  surf  where  the 
trembling  spars  of  the  brig  had  disappeared  forever.  To 
the  west  of  them  were  the  precipitous  shores  of  Cape  Bo- 
na vista,  lashed  by  the  surge,  and  the  dizzy  roost  of  wild 
sea-birds.  For  this,  the  nearest  land,  in  single  file,  with 
Captain  Knight  at  their  head,  they  commenced  at  sunset 
their  dreadful,  and  almost  hopeless  march.  All  night, 
without  refreshment  or  rest,  they  went  stumbHng  and 
plunging  on  their  perilous  way,  now  and  then  sinking 
into  the  slush  between  the  pans  or  ice-cakes,  and  having 
to  be  drawn  out  by  their  companions.  But  for  their 
leader  and  a  few  bold  spirits,  the  party  would  have 
sunk  down  with  fatigue  and  despair,  and  perished.  At 
daybreak,  they  were  still  on  the  rolling  ice-fields,  be- 
clouded with  fog,  and  with  nothing  in  prospect  but  the 
terrible  Cape  and  its  solitary  chance  of  escape.  Thirsty, 
famished,  and  worn  down,  they  toiled  on,  all  the  morn- 
ing, all  the  forenoon,  all  the  afternoon,  more  and  more 
slowly,  and  with  increasing  silence,  bewildered  and  lost 
in  the  dreadful  cloud  travelling  along  parallel  with  the 
coast,  and  passing  the  Cape,  but  without  knowing  it  at 
the  time.      But  for  some   remarkable   interposition  of 


134  CAPTAIN    knight's    SHIPWRECK. 

Divine  Providence,  the  approaching  sunset  would  be  their 
last.  Only  the  most  determined  would  continue  the 
march  into  the  next  night.  The  worn-out  and  hopeless 
ones  would  drop  down  singly,  or  gather  into  little  groups 
on  the  cold  ice,  and  die.  As  the  Captain  looked  back  on 
them,  a  drawn-out  line  of  suffering  men,  now  in  the  hol- 
low of  the  waves,  and  then  crossing  the  ridge,  the  last  of 
them  scarcely  seen  in  the  mist,  he  prayed  that  God  would 
interpose,  and  save  them.  A  man  who  prays  in  fair 
weather,  may  trust  God  in  the  storm.  So  thought  Cap- 
tain Knight,  when  he  thought  of  home,  and  wife  and 
children,  and  the  wives  and  the  children  of  his  men,  and 
made  his  supplication.  They  had  shouted  until  they 
were  hoarse,  and  looked  into  the  endless,  gray  cloud  until 
they  had  no  heart  for  looking  any  longer.  Wonderful  to 
tell !  Just  before  sundown  they  came  to  a  vessel.  A 
few  rods  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  and  they  must  have 
missed  it,  and  been  lost.  It  was  owing  to  this  disaster 
that  Captain  Knight  was  at  leisure  in  St.  Johns  upon  our 
arrival,  and  found  it  agreeable  to  undertake,  for  a  few 
weeks,  our  guidance  after  the  icebergs. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

BELLE    ISLE    AND   THE    COAST.— AFTEE-DINNEK   DISCUSSION.— FIEST 
YIEW  OP  LABEADOE.— ICEBEEGS.— THE  OCEAN  AND  THE  SUNSET. 

Wednesday,  July  6.  After  a  quiet  night,  with  a 
mild  and  favorable  breeze,  the  morning  opens  with  the 
promise  of  a  bright  day.  Our  little  cloud  of  sail  is  all  up 
in  the  early  sunshine,  and  moving  before  the  cool  south 
wind  steadily  forward  down  the  northern  sea.  Brilliantly 
as  the  summer  sun  looks  abroad  upon  the  mighty  waters, 
I  walk  the  clean,  wet  deck,  in  the  heaviest  winter  cloth- 
ing, and  have  that  pleasant  tingling  in  the  veins  which 
one  feels  in  a  brisk  walk  on  a  frosty  autumnal  morning. 
We  are  abreast  of  South  Belle  Isle,  high  lands  fronting 
the  ocean,  with  huge  precipices,  the  fashion  of  most  of  the 
eastern  coast  of  Newfoundland.  With  all  their  same- 
ness, their  rugged  grandeur  and  the  ceaseless  battle  of 
the  waves  below  make  them  ever  interesting.     Imagine 


136  AFTER-DINNER   DISCUSSIONS. 

the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson,  and  the  steeper  parts  of  the 
Highlands  exposed  to  the  open  Atlantic,  and  you  will 
have  no  imperfect  picture  of  these  shores.  They  have  no 
great  bank  of  earth  and  loose  rocks  heaped  up  along  their 
base,  but  step  at  once  into  the  great  deep  ;  so  deep  that 
the  icebergs,  several  of  which  are  in  sight,  float  close  in, 
and  seem  to  dare  their  very  crags. 

Afternoon.  We  have  a  pleasant  custom  of  coming 
up,  after  dinner,  and  eating  nuts  and  fruits  on  deck.  It 
is  one  of  the  merry  seasons  of  the  day,  when  John  Bull 
and  Jonathan  are  apt  to  meet  in  those  pleasant  encoun- 
ters which  bring  up  the  past,  and  draw  rather  largely 
upon  the  future,  of  their  history.  John  is  always  the 
greatest,  of  course,  and  ever  will  be,  secula  seculorum. 
Jonathan,  "  considering,"  is  greater  than  John.  To  be 
sure  he  is  thinner,  and  eats  his  dinner  in  a  minute  ;  but 
then  he  has  every  thing  to  do,  and  the  longest  roads  on 
earth  to  travel,  in  the  shortest  time.  In  fact,  he  has 
many  of  the  roads  to  make,  and  the  least  help  and  the 
shortest  purse  of  any  fellow  in  the  world  that  undertakes 
and  completes  grand  things.  John's  first  thousand  years 
is  behind  him  ;  Jonathan's,  before  him.  One's  work  is 
done  ;  the  other's  begun.  John's  fine  roads  were  made  by 
his  forefathers  ;  Jonathan  is  the  forefather  himself,  and 
is  making  roads  for  his  posterity.     In  fact,  Jonathan  is  a 


AFTER-DINNER    DISCUSSIONS.  137 

youth  only,  and  John  an  old  man.  When  the  lad  gets 
his  growth,  he  will  be  everywhere,  and  the  old  fogy,  by 
that  time,  comparatively  nowhere.  Jonathan  insists  that 
he  is  up  earlier  in  the  morning  than  John,  and  smarter, 
faster,  and  more  ingenious.  He  contends  that  he  has 
seen  his  worst  days,  and  John  his  very  best.  The  longer 
the  diverging  lines  of  the  dispute  continue,  the  further  they 
get  from  any  end  ;  and  wind  up  finally  with  one  general 
outburst  of  rhetoric,  distinguished  for  its  noise,  in  which 
each  springs  up  entirely  conscious  of  a  perfect  victory. 
In  the  complicated  enjoyment  of  almonds,  figs,  and  victory, 
we  betake  ourselves  to  reading,  the  pencil  and  the  brush. 
W  We  are  coasting  along  the  extreme  northern  limb  of 
Newfoundland,  bound  with  its  endless  girdle  of  adamant, 
upon  which  the  white  lions  of  old  Neptune  are  perpetu- 
ally leaping,  but  which  they  will  never  wrench  away. 
The  snow  lies  in  drifts  along  the  heights,  a  novel,  but 
rather  dreary  decoration  for  a  summer  landscape.  Be- 
tween us  and  the  descending  sun  stands  a  berg,  church- 
like in  form.  The  blue  shadows  in  contrast  with  the 
pure  white,  have  a  deep,  cloud-like,  and  grand  appear- 
ance. It  is  certainly  a  most  superb  thing,  rising  out  of 
the  blue-black  waves,  now  gleaming  in  the  slant  sunlight 
like  molten  silver.     So  vast  and  varied  is  the  scene,  at 

tment,  that  many  pencils  and  many  pens  would 


138  FIKST    VIEW    OF   LABRADOR. 

fail  to   keep   pace   with  the   rapid   description    of  the 
mind. 

Directly  west,  is  the  Land's  End  of  Newfoundland, 
Cape  Quirpon — in  the  seaman's  tongue,  Carpoon,  which 
we  now  shoot  past.  A  few  miles  to  the  north,  as  if  it 
might  have  been  split  off  from  the  Cape,  lies  Belle  Isle. 
The  broad  avenue  of  dark  sea,  extending  westward  be- 
tween the  cape  and  the  island,  opens  out  into  the  Strait 
of  Belle  Isle,  and  carries  the  eye  to  the  shore  of  Labra- 
dor, our  first  view  of  that  bony  and  starved  hermit  of  a 
country.  In  this  skeleton  sketch,  as  it  shows  on  paper, 
there  is  nothing  very  remarkable  ;  but  with  the  flesh  and 
the  apparel  of  nature  upon  it,  it  is  more  beautiful  than 
language  can  paint  to  the  reader's  eye.  The  entire  east 
is  curtained  by  one  smooth  cloud,  of  the  hue  called  the 
ashes-of-roses.  Full  against  it,  an  iceberg  rises  from  the 
ocean,  after  the  figure  of  a  thunderhead,  and  of  the  color 
of  a  newly-blown  rose  of  Damascus — a  gorgeous  spectacle. 
The  waters  have  that  dark  violet,  with  a  silvery  surface, 
lucent  like  the  face  of  a  mirror,  and  a  complexion  in  the 
deeps  reminding  one  of  the  soft,  dusky  hues  of  a  Claude 
Lorraine  glass.  The  painter  is  busy  with  his  colors, 
and  all  are  silently  opening  mind  and  heart  to  the  uni- 
versal beauty.  We  move  on  over  the  lovely  sea  with  a 
quiet  gracefulness,  in  harmony  with  the  visible  scene  and 


ICEBERGS. 


139 


I 


with  our  emotions.  We  are  looking  for  unusual  splen- 
dors, at  the  approaching  sunset.  I  close  the  note-book, 
and  give  myself  entirely  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  lonely 
and  still  magnificence. 

The  book  is  open  to  record.  The  sun  on  the  rugged 
hills  of  Labrador,  a  golden  dome  ;  Belle  Isle,  a  rocky, 
blue  mass,  with  a  wavy  outline,  rising  from  the  purple 
main  pricked  with  icebergs,  some  a  pure  white,  others 
flaming  in  the  resplendent  sunset  like  red-hot  metal. 
We  are  sailing  quietly  as  an  eagle  on  the  still  air.  Our 
English  friends  are  heard  singing  while  they  walk  the 
deck,  and  look  off  upon  the  lonesome  land  where  their 
home  is  waiting  for  them. 

All  that  we  anticipated  of  the  sunset,  or  the  after- 
sunset,  is  now  present.  The  ocean  with  its  waves  of 
Tyrian  dye  laced  with  silver,  the  tinted  bergs,  the  dark- 
blue  inland  hills  and  brown  headlands  underlie  a  sky  of 
unutterable  beauty.  The  west  is  all  one  paradise  of 
colors.  Surely,  nature,  if  she  follows  as  a  mourner  on  the 
footsteps  of  the  fall,  also  returns  jubilant  and  glorious  to 
the  scenes  of  Eden.  Here,  between  the  white  light  of 
day  and  the  dark  of  the  true  evening,  shade  and  bright- 
ness, like  Jacob  and  the  angel,  now  meet  and  wres- 
tle for  the  mastery.  Close  down  along  the  gloomy 
purple  of  the  rugged  earth,  beam  the  brightest  lemon 


140  THE    OCEAN    AND    THE    SUNSET. 

hues,  soon  deepening  into  the  richest  orange,  with  scat- 
tered tints  of  new  straw,  freshly  blown  lilacs,  young 
peas,  pearl  and  blue  intermingled.  Above  are  the 
royal  draperies  of  the  twilight  skies.  Clouds  in  silken 
threads  and  skeins  ;  broad  velvet  belts  and  ample  folds 
black  as  night,  but  pierced  and  steeped  and  edged  with 
flaming  gold,  scarlet  and  crimson,  crimson  deep  as  blood  ; 
crimson  fleeces,  crimson  deep  as  blood  ;  plumes  tinged 
with  pink,  and  tipped  with  fire,  white  fire.  And  all  this 
glory  lies  sleeping  on  the  shore,  only  on  the  near  shore  of 
the  great  ethereal  ocean,  in  the  depths  of  which  are  melted 
and  poured  out  ruby,  sapphire  and  emerald,  pearl  and 
gold,  with  the  living  moist  blue  of  human  eyes.  The 
painter  gazes  with  speechless,  loving  wonder,  and  I  whis- 
per to  myself :  This  is  the  pathway  home  to  an  immor- 
tality of  bKss  and  beauty.  Of  all  the  days  in  the  year, 
this  may  be  the  birth-day  of  the  King-of-day,  and  this 
efi'ulgence  an  imperial  progress  through  the  grand  gate  of 
the  west.  How  the  soul  follows  on  in  quiet  joy,  dreaming 
of  lovely  ones,  waiting  at  home,  and  lovely  ones  departed, 
waiting  with  Christ  !  Here  come  those  wondrous  lines 
of  Goethe,  marching  into  the  memory  with  glowing 
pomp  : 

.  .  .  .  "  The  setting  Sun !    He  bends  and  sinks — the  day  is  over- 
lived.    Yonder  he  hurries  off,  and  quickens  other  life.     Oh !   that  I 


I 


I 
I 


THE   OCEAK   AND    THE    SUNSET.  141 

have  no  wiDg  to  lift  me  from  the  ground,  to  struggle  after,  forever 
after  him !  I  should  see,  in  everlasting  evening  beams,  the  stilly  world 
at  my  feet, — every  height  on  fire, — every  vale  in  repose, — the  silver 
brook  flowing  into  golden  streams.  The  rugged  mountain,  with  all 
its  dark  defiles,  would  not  then  break  my  god-like  course.  Already 
the  sea,  with  its  heated  bays,  opens  on  my  enraptured  sight.  Yet  the 
god  seems  at  last  to  sink  away.  But  the  new  impulse  wakes.  I  hurry 
on  to  drink  his  everlasting  light, — the  day  before  me  and  the  night 
behind, — the  heavens  above,  and  under  me  the  waves.  A  glorious 
dream !  as  it  is  passing,  he  is  gone." 

Here  come  the  last  touches  of  the  living  coloring, 
tinging  the  purple  waves  around  the  vessel.  Under  the 
icebergs  hang  their  pale  and  spectral  images,  piercing  the 
depths  with  their  mimic  spires,  and  giving  them  a  lus- 
trous, aerial  appearance.  The  wind  is  lulling,  and  we  rise 
and  fall  gracefully  on  the  rolling  plain.  "The  day  is 
fading  into  the  later  twilight,  and  the  twilight  into  the 
solemn  darkness."  No,  not  into  darkness  ;  for  in  these 
months,  the  faint  flame  flickering  all  night  above  the 
white  ashes  of  day  from  the  west  circling  around  to  the 
north  and  east,  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight  and  the 
northern-light,  all  conspire  to  make  the  night,  if  not 
'^  more  beloved  than  day,"  at  least  very  lovely.  A  gloomy 
duskiness  drapes  the  cape,  beneath  the  solitary  cliffs  of 
which  lies  half  entombed  a  shattered  iceberg,  a  ghostly 
wreck,  around  whose  dead,  white  ruins  the  mad  surf 
springs  up  and  flings  abroad  its  ghastly  arms.     Softly 


142  THE    OCEAN    AND    THE    SUNSET. 

comes  its  sad  moaning  and  blends  with  the  plaintive 
melodies  of  the  ocean.  Hark !  a  sullen  roar  booms 
across  the  dusky  sea — nature's  burial  service  and  the 
funeral  guns.  A  tower  of  the  old  iceberg  of  the  cape  has 
tumbled  into  the  billows.  We  gather  presently  into  the 
cabin  for  prayer,  and  so  the  first  scene  closes  on  the  coast 
of  Labrador. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 


THE    MIDNIGHT    LOOK-OUT    FOKWAED.— A  STOEMY    NIGHT.— THE 
COMEDY  IN  THE  CABIN. 


Past  Midnight.  I  have  been  up  and  watching  for- 
ward for  more  than  an  hour,  roused  from  my  berth  by  the 
cry  of  ice.  A  large  ship,  with  a  cloud  of  sail,  passed  just 
across  our  head,  bound  for  Old  England.  "  That's  a 
happy  fellow,"  says  the  man  at  the  helm ;  "past  the 
dangers  of  the  St.  Lawrence  and  the  Straits,  and  fairly 
out  to  sea."  The  wind  is  rising,  and  promises  a  rough 
time.  "  There  is  something,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I 
leaned,  and  looked  over  the  bow,  "  there  is  something  in 
all  this,  familiar  as  it  is  to  many,  very  grand  and  awful, 
as  we  rise  upon  the  black  seas,  and  plunge  into  the  dark- 
ness, rushing  on  our  gloomy,  strange  way.  We  seem  to 
be  above  the  very  '  blackness  of  darkness,'  and  riding 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  night.    The  sounding  foam,  sweep- 


144  THE    MIDNIGHT    LOOK-OUT    FORWARD. 

ing  forward  from  beneath  our  bows,  looks  like  a  cloud  of 
supernatural  brightness,  its  whiteness  filled,  as  it  is,  with 
the  fire  and  electric  scintillations  of  the  sea.  One  could 
easily  imagine  himself  sailing  on  the  breeze  through  the 
night,  with  sparks  of  lightning  and  a  cloud  at  his  vessel's 
bow."  The  wind  freshens  to  a  gale  nearly,  and  all  hands 
are  called  on  deck.  We  are  rolling  in  a  most  uncomfort- 
able manner,  and  I  have  retreated  to  my  cabin,  and  will 
creep  back  to  my  berth. 

Thursday  Noon,  July  V.  A  few  scrawls  of  the  pen- 
cil will  serve  to  give  an  outline  of  our  experience  for  the 
last  twelve  hours.  A  dense  fog,  high  wind  and  a  heavy 
swell.  As  a  matter  of  course,  our  little  ship  has  been  in 
great  commotion,  and  we,  miserably  sea-sick,  regardless 
of  breakfast,  absent  from  the  cold,  wet  deck,  and  rolled 
up  below,  dull  and  speechless  in  bed.  We  have  been 
gradually  creeping  up  into  the  world,  of  late,  sipping  a 
little  coffee  and  nibbling  at  crackers.  We  are  off  Cape 
St.  Louis,  the  most  eastern  land  of  the  continent.  The 
few  turns  on  deck  have  sufficiently  electrified  the  brain 
to  enable  me  to  get  on  thus  far  with  my  notes,  and  to 
venture  upon  a  short  description  of  a  cabin-scene,  at  a 
very  late  hour  last  night. 

Three  sides  of  our  cabin,  a  room  some  ten  feet  by 
twelve,  and  barely  six  feet  under  the  beams,  are  taken  up 


A   STORMY    NIGHT. 


by  four  roughly-made  berths  ;  one  on  each  side,  and  two 
extending  crosswise,  with  a  space  between  them,  fitted 
up  with  shelves,  and  used  for  the  flour-barrel,  and  as  a 
cupboard.  Beneath  the  berths  are  trunks,  tubs,  bags, 
boxes  and  bundles,  most  of  our  choicest  stores.  From 
the  centre,  and  close  upon  the  steep,  obtrusive  stairs, 
covered  with  a  glossy  oil-cloth,  of  a  cloudy  brown  and  yel- 
low, our  table  looks  round  placidly  upon  this  domestic 
scene,  so  indicative  of  refreshment  and  repose.  With 
this  little  sketch  of  our  sea-apartment,  the  stage  upon 
which  was  enacted  our  last  night's  brief  play,  I  will  un- 
dertake its  description,  promising  a  brevity  that  rather 
suggests,  than  paints  it. 

After  the  midnight  look-out  forward  for  ice,  and  the 
retreat  to  the  cabin,  I  soon  joined  in  the  general  doze, 
rather  suffered  than  enjoyed.  In  the  uproar  above,  sharp 
voices  and  the  rush  of  footsteps  over  the  deck,  occasion- 
ally stamping  almost  in  our  very  faces,  we  were  too  fre- 
quently called  back  to  full  consciousness,  to  escape  away 
into  any  thing  better  than  the  merest  snatch  of  a  dream. 
In  my  own  case,  the  stomach,  as  usual,  indulged  itself  in 
taking  the  measure  of  those  motions,  so  disastrous  to  its 
peace  and  equipose ;  those  rollings,  risings,  sinkings, 
divings,  flings  and  swings,  in  which  there  is  the  sense  of 
falling,  and  of  vibrations  smooth  and  oily.     Where  one's 


146  THE    COMEDY    IN    THE    CABIN. 

mind's  eye  is  perpetually  looking  down  in  upon  the  poor 
remains  of  his  late  departed  dinner,  there  is  no  possibility 
for  the  outter  eye  to  sink  into  any  true  and  honest  slum- 
ber. The  shut  lid  is  a  falsehood.  It  is  not  sleep.  The 
live,  wakeful  eye  is  under  it,  looking  up  against  the 
skinny  veil.  Occasionally  the  veil  is  lifted  just  to  let  the 
dark  out ;  occasionally  the  dumb  blackness  falls  in  upon 
the  retina  like  a  stifling  dust,  and  dims  it,  for  a  moment, 
to  a  doze.  But  the  fire  of  wakefulness  soon  flashes  up 
from  the  cells  of  the  brain,  and  throws  out  the  sleepy 
darkness,  as  the  volcanic  crater  throws  out  its  smoke  and 
ashes. 

Through  some  marine  manoeuvre,  thought  necessary 
by  the  master  spirit  on  deck,  and  which  could  be  ex- 
plained by  a  single  nautical  word,  if  I  only  knew  what 
the  word  is,  we  began  to  roll  and  plunge  in  a  manner 
sufficiently  violent  and  frightful  to  startle  from  its  staid 
quiet  almost  every  movable  in  the  cabin.  Out  shot 
trunks  and  boxes — off  slid  cups  and  plates  with  a  smash 
— back  and  forth,  in  one  rough  scramble  with  the  luggage, 
trundled  the  table,  followed  by  the  nimble  chairs.  At 
this  rate  of  going  on,  our  valuables  would  soon  mix  in  one 
common  wreck.  Determining  to  interfere,  I  sprang  into 
the  unruly  confusion,  and  succeeded  in  lighting  a  candle 
just  in  time  to  join  in  the  rough-and-tumble,  at  the  risk 


THE    COMEDY    IN   THE   CABIN. 


147 


of  ribs  and  limbs,  and  the  object  of  mingled  merriment 
and  alarm  to  the  more  prudent  spectators.  Botswood, 
an  experienced  voyager,  shouted  me  back  to  my  berth  in- 
stantly, if  I  would  not  have  my  bones  broken  at  the  next 
heavy  lurch  of  the  vessel.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  the 
force  of  the  counsel,  when  another  roll,  almost  down  upon 
the  beam-ends,  overturned  the  butter-tub  and  a  box  of 
loaf-sugar,  and  brought  their  contents  loose  upon  the  field 
of  action.  They  divided  themselves  ^between  the  legs  of 
the  table  and  the  individual,  and  so,  candle  in  hand  and 
adorned  in  modest  white,  he  sat  flat  down  upon  the  floor 
among  them,  at  once  their  companion  in  trouble  and 
their  protector.  The  marble-white  sugar  and  the  yellow 
butter,  our  luxuries  and  indispensable  necessaries,  there 
they  were,  on  the  common  floor,  and  disposed  for  once  to 
join  in  a  low  frolic  with  plebeian  boots  and  shoes  and 
scullion  trumpery.  With  an  earnest  resolve  to  prevent 
all  improprieties  of  the  kind,  one  hand  grasped,  knuckle 
deep,  the  golden  mellow  mass,  of  the  size  of  a  good  Yan- 
kee pumpkin,  and  held  on,  whQe  the  other  was  busy  in 
restoring,  by  the  rapid  handful,  the  sugar  to  the  safety  of 
its  box.  The  candle,  in  the  mean  time,  encouraged  by 
the  peals  of  laughter  in  the  galleries,  slid  back  and  forth 
in  the  most  trifling  manner  possible.  When  we  tipped 
one  way,  then  I  sat  on  a  steep  hill-side,  looking  down  to- 


148  THE    COMEDY   IN    THE    CABIN. 

ward  the  painter,  roaring  in  his  happy  valley  :  away  slid 
the  candle  in  her  tin  slippers,  and  away  the  barefooted 
butter  wanted  to  roll  after,  encouraged  to  indulge  in  the 
foolish  caper  by  a  saucy  trunk  jumping  down  from  be- 
hind.    When  we  tipped  the  other  way,  then  I  sat  on  the 
same  hill-side,    legs  up,  looking  up,  an  unsatisfactory 
position  :  back  slid  the  candle,  followed  by  a  charge  of 
sharp-pointed  baggage,  and  off  started  the  butter  with 
the  best  intentions  toward  the  tub,  waiting  prostrate  and 
with  open  arms.     Notwithstanding  the  repetition   and 
sameness  of  this  performance,  the  beholders  applauded 
with  the  same  heartiness,  as  if  each  change  back  and  forth 
was  a  novel  and  original  exhibition.     "What  heightened 
the  effect  of  the  scene,  and  gave  it  a  suspicion  of  the 
tragic,  was  a  keg  of  gunpowder,  which  evinced,  by  several 
demonstrations  of  discontent  in  the  dark  corner  where  it 
tumbled  about,  a  disposition  to  come  out  and  join  the 
candle.     By  a  happy  lull,  not  unusual  in  the  very  midst 
of  these  cabin  confusions  during  a  brush  at  sea,  the  pow- 
der did  not  enter,  and  I  was  enabled  to  pitch  the  butter 
into  the  tub,  and  finally  myself,  after  some  few  prelimi- 
naries with  a  towel,  into  my  berth,  where,  in  the  course 
of  the  small  remnant  of  the  night,  I  fell  into  some  broken 
slumbers. 


CHAPTEK  XXXI. 


THE  CAPE  AND  BAY  OF  ST.  L0UI9.-THE  ICEBEEG.— CAEIBOO  ISLAND. 
—BATTLE  HAEBOK  AND  ISLAND.— THE  ANCHOEAGE.— THE  MIS- 
SIONAEIES. 


Five  o'clock,  P.  M.  What  a  pleasing  contrast  ! 
We  have  been  tossing  nearly  all  day  upon  a  rough,  in- 
clement ocean,  and  are  now  on  the  sunny,  smooth  waters 
of  the  bay,  gliding  westward,  with  Cape  St.  Louis  close 
upon  our  right.  We  have  sailed  from  winter  into  sum- 
mer, almost  as  suddenly  as  we  come  out  of  the  fog,  at 
times — bursting  out  of  it  into  the  clear  air,  as  an  eagle 
breaks  out  of  a  cloud.  It  is  fairly  a  luxury  to  bask  in 
this  delicious  sunshine,  and  smell  the  mingled  perfume  of 
flowers,  and  the  musky  spruce.  Mr.  Hutchinson  is  filled 
with  delight  to  find  himself  once  more  on  this  beautiful 
bay.  The  rocky  hill-country  along  the  western  shores, 
nine  or  ten  miles  distant,  is  not  the  mainland,  he  tells 


150  THE    ICEBEBG. 

US,  but  islands,  separated  from  the  mainland,  and  from 
each  other,  by  narrow  waters,  occasionally  expanding  into 
lakes  of  great  depth,  and  extending  more  than  forty  miles 
from  the  sea.  Were  these  savage  hills  and  cliffs  beauti- 
fied with  verdure,  and  sprinkled  with  villages  and  dwell- 
ings, this  would  class  among  the  finest  bays  of  the  world. 
Across  it  to  the  south,  some  seven  miles,  and  partly  out 
to  sea,  lies  a  cluster  of  picturesque  islands,  where  is  Bat- 
tle Harbor,  the  home  of  the  missionaries,  and  the  prin- 
cipal port  on  the  lengthy  coast  of  Labrador. 

A  fine  iceberg,  of  the  fashion  of  a  sea-shell,  broken 
open  to  the  afternoon  sun,  and  unfolding  great  beauty, 
lies  in  the  middle  of  the  bay.  We  are  sailing  past  it,  on 
our  passage  to  the  harbor,  just  near  enough  for  a  good 
view.  It  gleams  in  the  warm  sun  like  highly-burnished 
steel,  changing,  as  we  pass  it,  into  many  complexions — 
changeable  silks  and  the  rarest  china.  The  superlatives 
are  the  words  that  one  involuntarily  calls  to  his  aid  in 
the  presence  of  an  iceberg.  From  this  bright  creation 
floating  in  the  purple  water,  I  look  up  to  the  bright 
clouds  floating  in  the  blue  air,  and  easily  discover  like- 
nesses in  their  features,  ways  and  colors. 

The  coast  of  Labrador  is  the  edge  of  a  vast  solitude 
of  rocky  hills,  split  and  blasted  by  the  frosts,  and  beaten 
by  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic,  for  unknown  ages.     Every 


CARIBOO   ISLAND.  151 

form  into  which  rocks  can  be  washed  and  broken,  is  visible 
along  its  almost  interminable  shores.  A  grand  headland, 
yellow,  brown  and  black,  in  its  horrid  nakedness,  is  ever 
in  sight,  one  to  the  north  of  you,  one  to  the  south.  Here 
and  there  upon  them  are  stripes  and  patches  of  pale 
green — mosses,  lean  grasses,  and  dwarf  shrubbery.  Oc- 
casionally, miles  of  precipice  front  the  sea,  in  which  the 
fancy  may  roughly  shape  all  the  structures  of  human  art, 
castles,  palaces  and  temples.  Imagine  an  entire  side  of 
Broadway  piled  up  solidly,  one,  two,  three  hundred  feet  in 
height,  often  more,  and  exposed  to  the  charge  of  the  great 
Atlantic  rollers,  rushing  into  the  churches,  halls,  and 
spacious  buildings,  thundering  through  the  doorways, 
dashing  in  at  the  windows,  sweeping  up  the  lofty  fronts, 
twisting  the  very  cornices  with  snowy  spray,  falling  back 
in  bright  green  scrolls  and  cascades  of  silvery  foam.  And 
yet,  all  this  imagined,  can  never  reach  the  sentiment  of 
these  precipices. 

More  frequent,  though,  than  headlands  and  perpen- 
dicular sea-fronts  are  the  sea-slopes,  often  bald,  tame,  and 
wearisome  to  the  eye,  now  and  then  the  perfection  of  all 
that  is  picturesque  and  rough,  a  precipice  gone  to  pieces, 
its  softer  portions  dissolved  down  to  its  roots,  its  flinty 
bones  left  standing,  a  savage  scene  that  scares  away  all 
thoughts  of  order  and  design  in  nature.      If  I  am  not 


152  CARIBOO  ISLAND. 

mistaken,  there  are  times  wlien  a  slope  of  the  kind,  a  mile 
or  more  in  length,  and  in  places  some  hundreds  of  feet  in 
breadth  from  the  tide  up  to  the  highest  line  of  washing, 
is  one  of  the  most  terribly  beautiful  of  ocean  sights.  In 
an  easterly  gale,  the  billows  roll  up  out  of  the  level  of  the 
ocean,  and  wreck  themselves  upon  these  crags,  rushing 
back  through  gulfs  and  chasms  in  a  way  at  once  awfuUy 
brilliant  and  terrific. 

This  is  the  rosy  time  of  Labrador.  The  blue  interior 
hills,  and  the  stony  vales  that  wind  up  among  them  from 
the  sea,  have  a  summer-like  and  pleasant  air.  I  find 
myself  peopling  these  regions,  and  dotting  their  hills, 
valleys,  and  wild  shores  with  human  habitations.  A 
second  thought,  and  a  mournful  one  it  is,  tells  me  that 
no  men  toil  in  the  fields  away  there  ;  no  women  keep  the 
house  off  there  ;  there  no  children  play  by  the  brooks,  or 
shout  around  the  country  school-house  ;  no  bees  come 
home  to  the  hive  ;  no  smoke  curls  from  the  farm-house 
chimney  ;  no  orchard  blooms ;  no  bleating  sheep  fleck 
the  mountain-sides  with  whiteness  ;  and  no  heifer  lows 
in  the  twilight.  There  is  nobody  there  ;  there  never  was 
but  a  miserable  and  scattered  few,  and  there  never  will 
be.  It  is  a  great  and  terrible  wilderness  of  a  thousand 
miles,  and  lonesome  to  the  very  wild  animals  and  birds. 
Left  to  the   still  visitations  of  the  light  from  the  sun. 


BATTLE  HARBOR   AND   ISLAND.  153 

moon,  and  stars,  and  the  auroral  fires,  it  is  only  fit  to 
look  upon,  and  then  be  given  over  to  its  primeval  soli- 
tariness. But  for  the  living  things  of  its  waters,  the  cod, 
the  salmon  and  the  seal,  which  bring  thousands  of  ad- 
venturous fishermen  and  traders  to  its  bleak  shores,  Lab- 
rador would  be  as  desolate  as  Greenland. 

We  are  now  entering  Battle  Harbor,  a  most  romantic 
nook  of  water,  or  Strait  rather,  between  the  islands  form- 
ing the  south  side  of  the  bay  St.  Louis.  Cariboo  Island 
fronts  to  the  north  on  the  bay,  five  or  six  miles,  I  should 
guess,  and  is  a  rugged  mountain-pile  of  dark  gray  rock, 
rounded  in  its  upper  masses,  and  slashed  along  its  shores 
with  abrupt  chasms.  It  drops  short  off,  at  its  eastern 
extremity,  several  hundred  feet,  into  a  narrow  gulf  of 
deep  water.  This  is  Battle  Harbor.  The  billowy  pile  of 
igneous  rock,  perhaps  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high, 
lying  between  this  quiet  water  and  the  broad  Atlantic,  is 
Battle  Island,  and  the  site  of  the  town.  We  pass  a 
couple  of  wild  islets,  lying  seaward,  as  we  glide  gently 
along  toward  our  anchorage.  There  is  little  to  be  seen 
but  hard,  iron-bound  bay,  and  yet  we  are  all  out,  gazing 
abroad  with  silent  curiosity,  as  if  we  were  entering  the 
Golden  Horn.  Up  runs  the  Union  Jack,  and  flings  its 
ancient  crosses  to  the  sun  and  breeze,  and  the  fishermen 

look  down  upon  us  from  their  rude  dwellings  perched 
7* 


154  THE   MISSIONARIES. 

among  the  crags,  and  wonder  who,  and  from  whence  we 
are.  For  the  moment,  nothing  seems  to  be  going  on  but 
standing  still  and  looking,  men,  women,  and  children. 
And  now  they  will  look  and  wonder  still  more  :  up  run 
the  Stars  and  Stripes,  higher  up  than  all,  and  overfloat 
the  flag  of  England,  and  salute  the  sun  and  cliffs  of  Lab- 
rador. The  missionary  waves  his  handkerchief — waves 
his  hat — calls  pleasantly  to  a  group  upon  the  nearest 
shore.  They  look,  and  hearken,  in  the  stillness  of  uncer- 
tainty. Instantly  there  is  a  movement  of  recognition. 
The  people  know  it  is  their  pastor.  The  intelligence  has 
caught,  and  runs  from  house  to  house.  Down  drop  the 
sails,  rattling  down  the  masts ;  the  anchor  plunges,  and 
the  cable  runs,  runs  rattling  and  ringing  from  its  coil. 
Round  the  vessel  swings  in  line  with  the  breeze,  and 
comes  to  its  repose.  We  congratulate  the  missionary  on 
his  safe  return,  while  he  points  us  feelingly  to  the  little 
church  and  parsonage,  just  above  us  on  the  mossy  hill- 
side, and  bids  us  welcome  as  long  as  we  shall  find  it 
agreeable  to  remain.  With  light  and  thankful  hearts, 
and  pleasant  anticipations,  we  prepare  to  go  ashore,  and 
take  our  first  run  upon  the  hills. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

BATTLE    ISLAND    AND    ITS    8CENEET. 

We  sit  down  upon  the  summit  of  Battle  Island,  after 
a  zigzag  scramble  up  its  craggy  side,  and  talk  and  sketch, 
and  scribble,  as  we  rest  and  look  upon  the  blue,  barren 
sea,  and  the  brown  and  more  barren  continent,  with  its 
mountains  of  desert  rock.  With  all  this  desolateness, 
the  approaching  sunset  and  the  warm  skies,  the  stem 
headlands,  the  white  icebergs  and  bleak  islands,  and  the 
bay  with  its  rays  and  points  of  water,  like  a  vast  spangle 
on  the  savage  landscape,  all  compose  a  picture  of  singular 
novelty  and  grandeur  ;  at  the  present  moment,  wonder- 
fully heightened  in  beauty  and  spirit  by  a  distant  shower, 
itself  a  spectacle  of  brilliancy  and  darkness  sweeping  up 
from  the  north.  Mr.  Hutchinson  here  joins  us,  looking 
aU  the  pleasure  that  he  feels,  and  points  out  what  is  visi- 


156  BATTLE    ISLAND    AND    ITS    SCENERY. 

ble  of  the  lengthy,  but  narrow  field  of  his  religious 
labors.  The  harbor,  with  its  vessels  and  various  build- 
ings, lies  quite  below.  One  could  very  nearly  throw  a 
stone  over  the  little  church  spire,  and  shoot  a  rifle  ball 
into  the  cliffs  opposite.  The  air  is  spiced  with  the  most 
delicate  odors,  which  invites  us  to  a  short  ramble  in 
search  of  flowers,  after  which  we  descend  to  the  parson- 
age for  tea. 

I  have  stolen  out  upon  the  small  front  piazza 
with  a  chair,  to  enjoy  the  warm  sunshine  and  the 
sights  of  a  Labrador  village.  The  parsonage,  which  has 
been  closed  for  more  than  a  year  past,  has  been  cleaned 
and  put  in  order  by  some  kind  Esquimaux  parishioners, 

j^nd  looks  neat  and  comfortable.     H has  taken  us  all 

through,  from  room  to  room — to  the  kitchen,  pantry,  bed- 
rooms, parlor,  which  serves  also  for  dining-room,  library 
and  study,  to  the  school-room  up  stairs,  which  is  used  at 
times  as  a  chapel.  As  we  passed  the  house  clock,  the 
pointer  still  upon  the  hour  where  it  stopped  more  than 
eighteen  months  ago,  the  painter  wound  it  up,  and  gave  it 
a  fresh  start  and  the  true  time,  which  it  began  to  measure 
by  loud  and  cheerful  ticks,  as  if  conscious  that  life  and 
spirit  had  returned  again  to  the  vacant  dwelling.  On 
the  shelf,  over  the  fireplace,  lay  a  prayer-book,  the  gift 
of  Wordsworth  to  his  nephew,  with  an  affectionate  in- 


BATTLE   ISLAND   AND   ITS   SCENERY. 


157 


scrip tion  on  a  fly-leaf,  in  his  own  handwriting,  while 
near  by  stood  a  couple  of  small  pictures  of  the  poet  and 
his  wife. 

As  some  fishermen  are  now  drawing  in  their  capelin 
seine,  we  are  going  to  run  down  and  see  the  sight.  And 
quite  a  pretty  sight  it  was.  Not  less  than  a  barrel  or 
two  were  inclosed,  which  they  dipped  with  a  small  scoop- 
net  into  their  boat,  where  they  lay  for  a  moment,  flutter- 
ing likfe  so  many  little  birds  of  gaudy  plumage  under  the 
fowler's  net.  The  males  and  females  of  these  delicate 
fishes,  are  called  here,  very  comically,  cocks  and  hens.  As 
our  boat,  just  then,  came  across  from  the  vessel,  the 
fishers  gave  us  a  mess  for  breakfast,  all  of  half  a  bushel, 
which  we  carried  over  at  once.  At  the  sight  of  several 
fine  salmon,  on  the  fishing-flake  close  by,  fresh  from  the 
net,  the  poor  little  capelin  sank  into  immediate  contempt. 
We  must  have  a  salmon  or  two.  It  was  a  question 
whether  we  could  not  eat  several.  It  resulted  in  the 
purchase  of  one  of  sixteen  pounds,  at  the  cost  of  a  dollar. 
We  were  pulled  back  immediately  in  order  to  sup  with 
Mr.  Hutchinson,  and  spend  the  remainder  of  the  long, 
light  evening  in  running  over  Battle  Island.  I  shall  not 
yield  to  the  temptation  to  dwell  upon  the  brilliant  sunset 
which  we  saw  from  the  summit  rocks.  Its  glories  were 
reflected  in  the  bay,  and  shed  upon  the  grim  wilderness, 


158  BATTLE   ISLAND   AND   ITS   SCENERY. 

dissolving  all  its  gloomy  ruggedness  into  softest  beauty. 
No  language  can  depict  the  still  and.  solemn  splendor  of 
the  icebergs,  reposing  upon  the  burnished  waters.  Tem- 
ples and  mausoleums  of  dazzling  white,  warming  into 
tints  of  pink,  or  deepening  on  their  shaded  side  into  the 
sweetest  azure,  seemed  to  be  standing  upon  a  mighty 
mirror  with  their  images  below.  I  thought  of  that  stand- 
ing on  the  sea  of  glass,  in  the  glorious  visions  of  St. 
John,  and  was  filled  with  emotions  of  wonder  and  admi- 
ration. The  words  of  the  psalmist  could  hardly  fail  to 
be  remembered  :  "  These  men  see  the  works  of  the  Lord, 
and  his  wonders  in  the  deep." 

One  would  think  that  all  is  couleur  de  rose  in  these 
lands  beyond  the  reach  of  fashionable  summer  tourists. 
Let  him  remember  that  nature  here  blooms,  beautifies, 
and  bears  for  the  entire  year,  in  a  few  short  weeks.  We 
are  in  the  very  flush  of  that  transient  and  charming  time. 
Believe  me,  when  I  speak  of  the  plants  and  flowers, 
shrubbery  and  mosses.  At  this  moment,  the  rocky  isle, 
bombarded  by  the  ocean,  and  flayed  by  the  sword  of  the 
blast  for  months  in  the  year,  is  a  little  paradise  of  beauty. 
There  are  fields  of  mossy  carpet  that  sinks  beneath  the 
foot,  with  beds  of  such  delicate  flowers  as  one  seldom 
sees. 

There  is  a  refined  dehcacy  in  the  odor,  which  the 


lATTLE   ISLAND    AND    ITS   SCENERY. 


159 


ordinary  flora  of  warmer  climes  seldom  lias.  Some  rare 
exotic,  reared  with  .cost,  and  pampered  by  all  the  ap- 
pliances of  art,  may  suggest  the  subtle  spirit  of  these 
tiny  blossoms.  It  steals  upon  the  sense  of  smell  with  the 
indescribable  tenderness  of  the  music  of  the  seolian  harp 
upon  the  ear.  As  I  enjoy  it,  I  know  that  I  cannot  paint 
it  to  the  reader,  and  that  I  shall  probably  never  "  look 
upon  its  like  again."  It  is  very  likely  that  the  cool  and 
very  pure  air,  a  refinement  of  our  common  atmosphere, 
has  much  to  do  with  it. 

In  our  stroll,  we  found  banks  of  snow  still  sleeping  in 
the  fissures  above  the  showering  of  the  surf,  and  peeping 
out  from  beneath  their  edges  were  clusters  of  pretty  flowers. 
As  we  returned  in  the  twilight,  upon  the  mournful  still- 
ness of  which  broke  the  voice  of  the  surge,  I  lingered 
upon  the  cliffs  to  listen  to  the  wood-thrush,  the  same 
most  plaintive  and  sweet  bird  that  sings  in  the  Catskill 
mountain  woods,  at  dusk  and  in  the  early  morning.  The 
pathos  of  its  wild  melody  stole  in  upon  the  heart,  waking 
"  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears,"  and  calling  up  a  throng  of 
tender  memories  of  Cole  and  others,  with  whom  the 
songster,  the  hour,  and  mountain  scenery  are  forever 
associated.  Startled  by  the  voices  of  my  companions, 
one  a  nephew  of  the  famous  poet,  and  the  other  a 
pupil  of  the  painter  scarcely  less  renowned,  I  hastened 


160  BATTLE   ISLAND    AND   ITS    SCENERY. 

to  join  them  at  the  humble  parsonage  below  the  cliffs, 
when  we  went  across  to  the  vessel^  and  united,  for  the 
last  time  in  the  cabin,  in  those  pleasant  devotions  which 
we  had  enjoyed,  morning  and  evening,  since  our  depar- 
ture from  St.  Johns. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


MOSSES,    0D0E8    AND    FLOWERS.— A     DINNEE-PARTY. 


Friday,  July  S,  1859.  A  bright,  cool  morning. 
After  breakfast  at  the  parsonage,  we  went  rambling  again 
up  and  down  the  moss-covered  fields  of  Battle  Island, 
smelling  the  fine  perfume,  gathering  flowers,  and  counting 
the  icebergs.  There  are  more  than  forty  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  some  of  them  grand  and  imposing  at  a  distance. 
Have  you  thought,  as  I  did,  that  there  are  no  flowers,  or 
next  to  none,  in  Labrador  ?  You  might  as  well  have 
thought  that  all,  or  nearly  all  the  flowers  were  in  Florida. 
Along  the  brook-banks  under  the  Catskills — to  me  about 
the  loveliest  banks  on  earth,  in  the  late  spring  and  early 
summer  days — I  have  never  seen  such  fairy  loveliness  as 
I  find  here  upon  this  bleak  islet,  where  nature  seems  to 


162  MOSSES,    ODORS    AND    FLOWERS. 

have  been  playing  at  Switzerland.  Green  and  yellow 
mosses,  ankle-deep  and  spotted  with  blood-red  stains,  car- 
pet the  crags  and  little  vales  and  cradle-like  hollows. 
Wonderful  to  behold  !  flowers  pink  and  white,  yellow, 
red  and  blue,  are  countless  as  dew-drops,  and  breathe  out 
upon  the  pure  air  that  odor,  so  spirit-like.  Such  surely 
was  the  perfume  of  Eden  around  the  footsteps  of  the 
Lord,  w^alking  among  the  trees  of  the  garden  in  the  cool 
of  the  day.  What  grounds  these,  for  such  souls  as  write, 
"  The  moss  supplicateth  for  the  poet,''  and  the  closing 
lines  of  the  "  Ode,  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  recol- 
lections of  early  Childhood."  The  Painter,  passionately 
in  love  with  the  flowers  of  the  tropics,  lay  down  and 
roUed  upon  these  soft,  sweet  beds  of  beauty  with  delight. 
Little  gorges  and  chasms,  overhung  with  miniature  preci- 
pices, wind  gracefully  from  the  summits  down  to  meet 
the  waves,  and  are  filled,  where  the  sun  can  warm  them, 
with  all  bloom  and  sweetness,  a  kind  of  wild  greenhouse. 
We  run  up  them,  and  we  run  down  them,  fall  upon  the 
cushioned  stones,  tumble  upon  their  banks  of  softness  as 
children  tumble  upon  deep  feather-beds,  and  dive  into 
the  yielding  cradles  embroidered  with  silken  blossoms. 
WiUows  with  a  silvery  down  upon  the  leaves,  willow-trees 
no  larger  than  fresh  lettuce,  and  the  mountain  laurel  of 
the  size  of  knitting-needles,  with  pink  flowers  to  corre- 


DINNER   PARTY. 


163 


spond,  cluster  here  and  there  in  patches  of  a  breadth  to 
suit  a  sleeping  child. 

After  our  ramble,  we  returned  on  board,  arranged  the 
cabin,  now  become  quite  roomy  from  the  departure  of  our 
friends,  and  prepared  for  dinner,  to  which  a  small  com- 
pany is  invited.  Our  cook,  a  young  Sandy,  excelling  in 
good  nature,  but  failing  in  all  the  essentials  of  his  art, 
was  suspended,  for  the  time,  from  the  exercise  of  all  duties 
about  the  caboose,  except  those  of  the  mere  lackey,  and 
two  more  important  personages  self-inducted  into  his 
place.  Some  pounds  of  fresh  salmon  bagged  in  linen,  a 
measure  of  peeled  potatoes,  a  pudding  of  rice  well  shotted 
with  raisins,  one  after  another,  found  their  way  to  the 
oven  and  the  boilers  ;  from  which,  in  due  time  and  order, 
they  emerged  in  a  satisfactory  condition,  and,  with  appro- 
priate sauce  and  gravy,  descended  in  savory  procession  to 
the  cabin,  to  which  they  were  unexpectedly  welcomed  by 
a  whole  dress  circle  of  fashionable  dishes  seated  in  the 
surrounding  berths,  jelly-cake,  sponge-cake,  raspberry- 
jam,  nuts,  figs,  almonds  and  raisins,  and  a  corpulent 
pitcher,  sweating  in  his  naked  white,  filled  with  iceberg 
water.  It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  the  fact,  that 
the  cooks  subsided  into  the  more  quiet  character  of  hosts, 
and  made  themselves,  and  endeavored  to  make  their 
guests,  merry  at  their  own  expense.     Whether  the  Queen 


164  A    DINNER   PARTY. 

of  England,  or  the  President  of  the  United  States  will  be 
pleased,  it  never  occurred  to  us  at  the  time,  when,  with- 
out thinking  of  either,  we  drank  to  their  health  in  the 
transparent  vintage  of  Greenland. 


CHAPTEK    XXXIV. 

OUE  BOAT  FOE  THE  ICEBERGS.— AFTER  THE  ALPINE  BERG.-STUDT 
OF   ITS   WESTERN  FACE. 

After  dinner.  Mr.  Hutchinson  has  placed  at  our  ser- 
vice his  parish  vessel,  at  once  a  schooner  and  a  row-boat, 
of  which  Captain  Knight,  of  course,  is  master,  and  our 
men  the  sailors.  We  are  all  ready,  waiting  its  arrival 
alongside,  in  order  for  our  first  excursion  after  icebergs, 
equipped  entirely  to  our  mind. 

An  hour's  sail  has  brought  us  off  into  the  broad  wa- 
ters, south  of  Battle  Harbor,  close  to  a  berg  selected  from 
the  heights  this  morning.  We  drop  sails,  and  row  rapidly 
around  it,  for  the  best  point  of  observation  in  the  present 
light.  The  intention  is  to  study  the  ices  of  these  waters, 
at  all  points,  and  in  all  lights,  with  great  care.  From 
this,  the  western  side,  now  glittering  in  the  face  of  the 
sun,  at  sik  o'clock,  it  is  alpine  in  its  form,  with  one 
crowning  peak,   supported  by  pinnacles  and  buttresses, 


166  AFTER   THE   ALPINE   BERG. 

with  intervening  gulfs  and  hollows,  each  with  its  torrent 
hissing  along  down  in  white  haste  over  glassy  cliffs  and  in 
alabaster  channels,  until  it  comes  spouting  into  the  sea 
from  an  overhanging  precipice,  varying  from  six,  to  twenty 
feet  in  height.  Between  the  upper  edge  of  this  ice-coast 
and  the  great  steeps  of  the  berg,  lies  a  broad  slope,  smooth 
as  ivory,  a  paradise  for  the  boys  of  a  village  school.  We 
are  actually  tempted  to  land  at  a  low  place,  and  have  a 
run.  Without  skates,  or  some  arming  of  the  boots,  how- 
ever, we  guess  it  would  be  rather  perilous  sport ;  in  short, 
simply  impossible.  We  content  ourselves  with  catching 
a  panfull  of  water,  fresh  from  the  great  Humboldt  gla- 
cier, quite  likely,  and  cold  and  pure  it  is.  While  we  are 
busy  at  the  fountain,  we  amuse  ourselves  with  looking 
down  through  the  clear,  green  water — right  under  us, 
clear  almost  as  air — at  the  roots  and  prongs  of  the  moun- 
tain mass.  They  shoot  out  into  the  dark  sea  below  far 
beyond  our  boat,  not  a  pleasing  vision  to  dwell  upon,  when 
we  reflect,  that  these  very  prongs  and  spurs  only  wait  to 
take  their  turn  in  the  sunshine,  under  the  aspect  of  up- 
right towers.  A  heavy  fall  of  ice,  which  may  happen  in 
a  minute,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  berg,  instantly 
gives  the  preponderance  to  this,  when  over  this  way 
slowly  rolls  the  alpine  peak,  down  sinks  all  this  precipice, 
and  after  it,  all  the  slanting  field  above  ;  then  on  rushes 


AFTER   THE   ALPINE   BERG.  167 

the  sea  in  curKng  waves,  and  we  are  swept  on  with  them. 
Before  we  can  get  back,  and  get  away  to  a  safe  distance, 
by  the  force  of  mere  sailor  power,  back  rolls  the  berg,  up 
rises  the  broad  slope,  followed  quickly  by  the  precipices 
rising  up,  up,  and  up  into  lofty  cliffs,  with  a  foreground, 
a  new  revelation  of  ice  ;  in  a  word,  the  prongs  and 
spurs  now  below  us  in  the  transparent  deep.  In  all 
this  play  of  the  iceberg  and  the  sea,  what  will  be  our 
part  ?  And  who  knows  whether  the  moment  is  not  now 
close  upon  us  for  this  sparkling  planet  of  the  main  to 
burst  asunder,  a  common  process  by  which  the  mother 
berg  throws  off  her  little  ones,  rather,  resolves  herself 
entirely  into  a  shoal  of  small  icebergs  ?  Should  that  mo- 
ment really  come  while  we  are  in  this  fearful  proximity, 
you  need  not  ask  any  questions  about  us,  except  those 
which  you  yourself  can  answer.  There  are  the  dead  in 
these  very  waters,  I  believe,  whose  last  earthly  experience 
was  among  the  final  thunders  of  these  ices. 

I  am  struck  with  the  rapid  rate  at  which  the  bergs 
are  perishing.  They  are  dissolving  at  every  point  and 
pore,  both  in  the  air  and  in  the  sea.  One  sheet  of  water, 
although  no  thicker  than  a  linen  sheet,  covers  the  entire 
alp.  It  trickles  from  every  height,  yonder  glimmering 
like  a  distant  window  in  the  sunset,  here  cutting  into  the 
glassy  surface  and  working  out  a  kind  of  jewelry,  which 


168  STUDY   OF   ITS   WESTERN   FACE. 

sparkles  with  points  of  emerald  and  ruby.  It  rains  from 
eves  and  gables,  cornices  and  balconies,  and  spouts  from 
gutters.  All  around,  tbere  is  the  pattering  of  a  shower 
on  the  sea,  and  the  sharp,  metallic  ringing  of  great  drops, 
similar  to  what  is  heard  around  a  pond  in  the  still  woods, 
when  the  dew-drops  fall  from  the  overhanging  boughs. 
Below,  the  currents,  now  penetrated  with  the  summer 
warmth,  are  washing  it  away.  Around  the  surface-line,  the 
ever-busy  waves  are  polishing  the  newly-broken  corners, 
and  cutting  under,  and  mining  their  way  in,  with  deceitful 
rapidity.  Unceasingly  they  bore  and  drill,  without  holi- 
day or  sabbath,  or  rest  at  night,  as  the  perpetual  thun- 
ders of  their  blasting  testify.  Thus  their  ruin  is  hourly 
hastening  to  a  consummation,  and  the  danger  of  ap- 
proaching them  made  more  and  more  imminent.  The 
iceberg  in  winter,  in  the  Arctic  regions,  and  even  here,  is 
a  different  affair.  In  the  cold,  they  are  tolerably  safe  and 
sound.  But  now,  in  these  comparatively  tepid  seas,  and 
in  this  warm  atmosphere,  lone  wanderer,  it  finds  no 
mercy.  Motionless  as  this  and  several  bergs  appear,  they 
are  all  slowly  moving  in  toward  the  Strait  of  Belle  Isle, 
borne  forward  by  the  great  Baffin  current,  a  stream  of 
which  bends  around  Cape  St.  Louis  and  these  adjacent 
isles,  and  sets  along  the  shore  of  Labrador  into  the  Gulf 
of  St.  Lawrence. 


CHAPTEK   XXXV. 

THE  ALPINE  BERG.-STUDIES  OF  ITS  SOUTHEEN  FEONT.-FEIGHTFUL 
EXPLOSION  AND  F.VLL  OF  ICE.-STUDIES  OF  THE  WESTEEN  SIDE. 
— OUE  PLAY  WITH  THE  MOOSE  HOENS.— THE  SPLENDOE  OF  THE 
BEEG   IN  THE  SUNSET. 


We  are  now  lying  under  oars,  riding  quietly  on  tlie 
swells,  distant,  say,  a  hundred  yards  soutli  of  the  berg, 
which  has  a  visible,  perpendicular  front  of  five  hundred, 
by  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  or  more  elevation.  It  re- 
sembles a  precipice  of  newly-broken  porcelain,  wet  and 
dripping,  its  vast  face  of  dead  white  tinged  with  green, 
here  and  there,  from  the  reflection  of  the  green  water  at 
its  base.  We  are  in  its  shadow,  which  reaches  off  on  the 
sunny  sea,  a  long,  dark  track.  The  outline  of  the  berg  is 
one  edge  of  dazzling  brightness,  a  kind  of  irregular,  flow- 
ing frame,  gilt  with  sunlight,  which  comes  pouring  over 
in  full  tide  from  behind.     Where  the  ice  shoots  up  into 

thin  spear-points,  or  runs  along  a  semi-transparent  blade, 

8 


170  STUDIES   OF   ITS   SOUTHERN    FRONT. 

the  liglit  shines  through,  and  gives  the  tint  of  flame,  with 
a  greenish  hand  below,  and  lower  still,  a  soft  blue,  pres- 
ently lost  in  the  broad  white.  In  these  ices,  never  think 
of  any  such  as  you  see  at  home,  from  Kockland  and  Cats- 
kill.  Frozen  under  enormous  pressure^  and  frozen  to  dry 
and  flinty  hardness,  it  has  all  the  sparkle  of  minutest 
crystallization,  and  resembles,  as  I  have  said  already, 
freshly  broken  statue-marble  or  porcelain,  as  you  see  it  on 
the  edge  newly  snapped.  The  surface  of  this  ice  is  in 
itself  a  study  singularly  complex  and  subtle.  How  the 
mere  passer-by,  at  a  distance,  is  going  to  know  any  thing 
of  value  to  a  painter,  I  cannot  teU.  The  fact  is,  he  knows 
just  nothing  at  all.  A  portrait-painter  might  as  well 
pretend  to  have  a  knowledge  of  flesh,  from  seeing  people 
at  a  distance.  I  think  if  I  could  study  just  here,  for 
hours,  I  should  be  able  to  speak  more  correctly.  Of 
course,  the  Painter,  whose  eye  is  trained  to  look  into  the 
texture  of  surfaces,  sees  all  more  readily.  I  am  looking 
up  to  rough  crags,  and  enormous  bulges,  where  the  recent 
fracture  would  seem  to  have  an  almost  painful  sharpness 
to  the  touch.  Where  the  surfaces  have  been  for  a  time 
exposed  to  the  weather,  they  have  the  flesh-finish  of  a 
statue.  Along  the  lower  portion,  where  you  see  the  glass- 
ing effects  of  the  waves,  there  it  resembles  the  rarest 
Sevres  vase,  or  even  pearl  itself,  so  exquisitely  fine  is 


STUDIES    OF    ITS    SOUTHERN    FRONT.  171 

the  polish.  It  is  almost  mirror-like.  You  perceive  the 
dim  images  of  passing  objects,  shadowy  ships  and  shores. 
Where  the  light  pours  over  it  in  its  strength,  it  shines 
like  burnished  steel  in  the  sunshine. 

Under  the  manifold  effects  of  atmosphere,  light  and 
shade,  none  can  imagine,  through  the  medium  of  mere 
description,  the  grandeur  and  glory  of  these  moving  Alps 
of  ice.  Here  now,  is  one  simple  feature,  which  our  dan- 
gerous proximity  alone  enables  us  to  view,  the  wondrous 
beauty  of  which — ^beauty  to  the  feelings  as  well  as  to  the 
eye — I  cannot  find  any  language  to  paint.  I  may  talk 
of  it  through  a  hundred  periods,  and  yet  you  will  never 
feel  and  see  a  tithe  of  what  you  would  in  a  moment,  were 
you  here  upon  the  spot.  The  berg,  in  the  deep  shadow 
of  which  we  now  sit  painting  and  writing,  as  I  have  inti- 
mated, is  in  form  a  mountain  pinnacle,  split  down  from 
the  summit  square,  and  the  spHt  side  toward  our  boat. 
What  has  became  of  the  lost  half,  the  Great  Builder  of 
icebergs  only  knows.  We  are  under  the  cliffs,  from  which 
that  unknown  part  burst  off  and  fell  away.  It  is  an 
awful  precipice,  with  all  the  features  of  precipices,  such 
as  are  seen  about  capes,  headlands  and  ocean  shores. 
Here  it  swells  out,  there  it  sinks  in,  masses  have  slidden 
I  out,  and  left  square-headed  doorways  opening  into  the 
1     solid  porcelain,  ridges  run  off,  and  hollows  run  in  and 


172  EXPLOSION    AND    FALL    OF    ICE. 

around.  In  these  very  hollows  and  depressions  is  the 
one  feature  of  which  I  am  speaking.  And,  after  all,  what 
is  it  ?  It  is  simply  shadow.  Is  that  all  ?  That  is 
all :  only  shadow.  All  the  grand  fa9ade  is  one  shadow, 
with  a  rim  of  splendor  like  liquid  gold  leaf  or  yellow 
flame,  but  in  those  depressions  is  a  deeper  shadow. 
Shadow  under  shadow,  dove-colored  and  blue.  Thus 
there  seems  to  be  drifting  about,  in  the  hollow  lurking- 
places  of  the  dead  white,  a  colored  atmosphere,  the 
warmth,  softness,  and  delicate  beauty  of  which  no  mind 
can  think  of  words  to  express.  So  subtle  is  it  and  evan- 
escent, that  recollection  cannot  recall  it  when  once  gone, 
but  by  the  help  of  the  heart  and  the  feelings,  where  the 
spirit  of  beauty  last  dies  away.  You  can  feel  it,  after  you 
have  forgotten  what  its  complexion  precisely  is,  and  from 
that  emotion  you  may  come  to  remember  it.  You  would 
remember  nothing  more  beautiful. 

Any  doubt  that  I  may  have  entertained  about  the 
danger  of  lying  under  the  shadow  of  this  great  ice-rock  is 
now  wholly  dispelled.  We  have  just  witnessed  what  was, 
for  the  moment,  a  perfect  cataract  of  ice,  with  all  its  mo- 
tion, and  many  times  its  noisa.  Quick  as  lightning  and 
loud  as  thunder,  when  bolt  and  thunder  come  at  the 
same  instant,  there  was  one  terrific  crack,  a  sharp  and 
silvery  ringing  blow  upon  the  atmosphere,  which  I  shall 


^ 


EXPLOSION    AND    FALL   OF    ICE. 

never  forget,  nor  ever  be  able  to  describe.  It  shook  mo 
through,  and  struck  the  very  heart.  The  only  response  on 
my  part,  and  I  was  not  alone  in  the  fright,  was  a  convul- 
sive spring  to  the  feet,  and  a  shout  to  the  oarsmen,  of 
fierce  command,  "  Row  back  !  row  back  !  "  The  specta- 
^^  cle  was  nearly  as  startling  as  the  explosion.  At  once,  the 
upper  face  of  the  berg  burst  out  upon  the  air,  as  if  it  had 
been  blasted,  and  swept  down  across  the  great  cliff,  a  huge 
cataract  of  green  and  snowy  fragments,  with  a  wild, 
crashing  roar,  followed  by  the  heavy,  sullen  thunder  of 
the  plunge  into  the  ocean,  and  the  rolling  away  of  tho 

B  high-crested  seas,  and  the  rocking  of  the  mighty  mass 
back  and  forth,  in  the  effort  to  regain  its  equilibrium. 
I  dreaded  the  encounter  ;  but  our  whale-boat  was  quite 
at  home,  and  breasted  the  lofty  swells  most  gracefully. 
But  how  fearfully  impressive  is  all  this  !     I   recall  the 

K  warning  of  the  Bishop  of  Newfoundland,  and  recollect  the 
conversation  of  the  Rev.   Mr.  Wood,  the  rector  of  St. 

I  Thomas'. 
We  now  pass  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  berg,  and 
take  a  position  between  it  and  the  sun.  Upon  our  first 
circumnavigation,  we  found  this  edge  of  the  ice,  in  its 
:'  lowest  part,  about  six  feet  above  the  sea,  with  a  caver- 
nous hollow  running  all  round,  into  which  the  waves  were 
playing  with  their  strange  and  many  sounds.     Now,  from 


I 


174  STUDIES    OF    THE    WESTERN    SIDE. 

the  recent  loss  of  ice  on  the  opposite  heights,  all  this  edge 
has  sunk  helow  the  waves,  leaving  only  an  inclined  plane 
sweeping  up  from  the  water's  edge  to  the  steeper  parts  of 
the  berg,  at  an  angle  of  about  20  degrees.  Fancy  a  slab 
of  Italian  marble,  four  and  ^ve  hundred  feet  in  width, 
extending  from  the  eaves  of  the  City  Hall,  New  York, 
half-way  or  more  down  the  park.  I  think  you  will  have 
a  tolerable  notion  of  the  slope  now  before  us.  Up  this 
slippery  field  of  ivory  hardness  roll  the  waves,  dark  as 
night  until  they  strike  the  ice,  when,  in  a  flash,  they 
turn  into  that  lovely  green  of  the  sea,  and  afterward 
break  in  long  lines  of  tumultuous  foam.  The  spectacle 
is  perfectly  magnificent.  A  seam  of  ice,  apparently  six 
inches  in  diameter,  of  the  hue  of  a  sapphire,  cuts  the  berg 
from  its  very  top  down,  and  doubtless  cuts  through  the 
entire  submarine  body.  This  jewel  of  the  iceberg  is  a 
wonderful  beauty.  Sparkles  of  light  seem  to  come  from 
its  blue,  transparent  depths.  What,  at  first,  appears  sin- 
gular is,  that  these  blue  veins  are  much  softer  than  the 
surrounding  ice,  melting  faster,  and  so  becoming  channels 
in  wliich  little  torrents  glitter  as  they  run.  At  first,  we 
were  at  a  loss  to  know  how  they  originated,  but  presently 
felt  satisfied,  that  they  were  cracks  filled  with  water,  and 
frozen  when  the  berg  was  a  glacier.  This  indelible  mark 
of  primitive  breakage  and  repair  indicates  with  some  cor- 


OUR  PLAY  WITH  THE 


HOR] 


rectness  the  original  perpendicular  of  the  ice.  According 
to  the  blue  band  in  the  berg  now  before  us,  it  is  occupy- 
ing very  nearly  the  position  it  was  in  when  it  was  a  fissure 
or  crevasse  of  the  glacier.  Long  processional  lines  of 
broken  ice  are  continually  floating  off  from  the  parent 
berg,  which,  in  the  process  of  melting,  assume  many 
curious  shapes,  huge  antlers  of  the  moose  and  elk,  and 
sea-fowl,  geese  and  ducks,  of  gigantic  figure.  We  have 
just  succeeded  in  securing  one  of  these  antlers,  and  a 
merry  time  we  had.  Before  reaching  it,  we  supposed  one 
could  bend  over  and  lift  it  out  of  the  water  as  easily  as 
he  stoops  and  picks  up  a  buck's  horn  out  of  the  prairie 
grass.  It  was  a  match  for  three  of  us,  and  escaped  out 
of  our  hands  and  arms  repeatedly,  slipping  back  into  the 
waves,  and  requiring  us  to  round  to  again  and  again  before 
we  fairly  had  it.  As  it  is  the  hardest  and  the  heaviest, 
so  it  is  1  he  most  slippery  of  all  ices,  and  certainly  it  seems 
to  me  the  coldest  thing  upon  which  human  hands  were 
ever  laid.  Our  summer  cakes,  handed  in  by  the  ice-man, 
are  warm,  I  fancy,  in  comparison.  I  do  not  wonder  that 
the  face  of  icebergs  burst  off,  under  the  expansion  of  the 
heat  they  receive  in  these  July  days.  The  surface  of  this 
horn  is  not  the  least  curious  feature  of  it :  it  is  melted 
into  circular  depressions  about  the  depth  and  size  of  a 
large  watch-crystal,  all  cutting  into  each  other  with  such 


176  SPLENDOR   OF   THE   BERG   AT    SUNSET. 

regularity  that  their  angles  fall  into  lines  parallel  and 
diagonal  in  the  most  artistic  manner.  Now  that  we  have 
it  in  the  boat,  it  resembles  a  pair  of  mammoth  moose- 
horns  sculptured  from  water-soaked  alabaster.  We  see 
several  of  them  now,  &Ye  or  six  feet  tall,  rocking  and 
nodding  on  the  swells  as  if  they  were  the  living  append- 
ages of  some  old  moose  of  the  briny  deep,  come  up  to 
sport  a  little  in  the  world  of  warmth  and  sunshine. 

C finds   great   difficulty  in   painting,   from  the 

motion  of  the  boat ;  but  it  is  the  best  thing  in  the  ser- 
vice, after  all,  for  the  men  can  take  a  position,  and  keep 
it  by  the  help  of  oars,  in  spite  of  the  waves  and  currents 
which  beset  an  iceberg.  The  moments  for  which  we  have 
been  waiting  are  now  passing,  and  the  berg  is  immersed 
in  almost  supernatural  splendors.  The  white  alpine  peak 
rises  out  of  a  field  of  delicate  purple,  fading  out  on  one 
edge  into  pale  sky-blue.  Every  instant  changes  the 
quality  of  the  colors.  They  flit  from  tint  to  tint,  and 
dissolve  into  other  hues  perpetually,  and  with  a  rapidity 
impossible  to  describe  or  paint.  I  am  tempted  to 
look  over  my  shoulder  into  the  north,  and  see  if  the 
"  merry  dancers  "  are  not  coming,  so  marvellously  do  the 
colors  come  and  go.  The  blue  and  the  purple  pass  up 
into  peach-blow  and  pink.  Now  it  blushes  in  the  last 
look   of    the  sun-red   blushes   of  beauty — tints   of  the 


SPLENDOR    OF    THE    BERG   AT    SUNSET. 


177 


roseate  birds  of  the  south — the  complexion  of  the  roses 
of  Damascus.  In  this  delicious  dye  it  stands  embalmed 
— only  for  a  minute,  though  ;  for  now  the  softest  dove- 
colors  steal  into  the  changing  glory,  and  turn  it  all  into 
light  and  shade  on  the  whitest  satin.  The  bright  green 
waves  are  toiling  to  wash  it  whiter,  as  they  roll  up  from 
the  violet  sea,  and  explode  in  foam  along  the  broad 
alabaster.  Power  and  Beauty,  hand  in  hand,  bathing  the 
bosom  of  Purity.  I  need  not  pause  to  explain  how  all 
this  is  ;  but  so  it  is,  and  many  times  more,  in  the  pass- 
ing away  of  the  sunshine  and  the  daylight.  It  is  wonder- 
ful I  I  had  never  dreamed  of  it,  even  while  I  have  been 
reading  of  icebergs  well  described.  As  I  sit  and  look  at 
this  broken  work  of  the  Divine  fingers, — only  a  shred 
broken  from  the  edge  of  a  glacier,  vast  as  it  is — I  whisper 
these  words  of  Kevelation :  "  and  hath  washed  their 
robes,  and  made  them  white  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb." 
It  hangs  before  us,  with  the  sea  and  the  sky  behind  it, 
Hke  some  great  robe  made  in  heaven.  Where  the  flow- 
ing folds  break  into  marble-like  cliffs,  on  the  extreme 
wings  of  the  berg,  an  inward  green  seems  to  be  pricking 
through  a  fine  straw  tint,  spangled  with  gold.  Weary, 
chilly,  and  a  little  sea-sick,  I  am  glad  to  find  the  Painter 
giving  the  last  touches  to  a  sketch,  and  to  hear  him  give 

the  word  for  return.     The  men,  who  in  common  with 
8* 


178       SPLENDOR  OF  THE  BERG  AT  SUNSET. 

all  these  people  of  this  northern  sea  have  a  terror  of  ice- 
bergs, gladly  lift  the  sails,  and  so,  with  Captain  Knight 
at  the  helm,  we  are  speeding  over  the  waves  for  Battle 
Harbor. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

KAMBLE    AMONG    THE    FLOWERS    OF    BATTLE    ISLAND.— A  VISIT    TO 
THE  FISHEEMEN.-WALK  AMONG  THE   HILLS  OF  CARIBOO. 

Saturday,  July  9.  We  are  abroad  again  on  the 
rocky  hills,  fanned  with  the  soft,  summer  wind,  and 
blessed  with  the  lovehest  sunshine.  The  mosses  sparkle 
with  their  sweet-scented  blossoms  of  purple,  white,  and 
red,  and  the  wood-thrush  is  pouring  out  its  plaintive 
melody  over  the  bleak  crags,  and  the  homes  of  fishermen, 
around  whose  doors  I  see  the  children  playing  as  merrily 
as  the  children  of  fortune  in  more  favored  lands.  How 
many  a  tender  parent,  now  watching  over  a  sick  child  in 
the  wealthy  city,  would  be  glad  to  have  the  sufferer  here, 
to  be  the  playfellow  of  these  simple  boys  and  girls,  if  he 
could  have  their  health  and  promise  of  life.  Captain 
Knight  comes  with  his  hands  full  of  flowers,  not  unlike  the 
daisy  ;  and  here  come  Hutchinson  and  the  Painter.    We 


180  A    VISIT    Tg    THE    FISHERMEN. 

meet  around  this  moss-covered  crag,  where  I  am  sitting 
with  my  book  and  pencil,  and  resolve  at  once  to  go  down; 
and  visit  an  islet  of  the  harbor,  where  a  few  families  have 
a  summer  residence  during  the  fishing  season. 

Here  we  are  among  the  huts  and  dogs,  and  English 
people,  with  the  ways  of  Labrador.  A  kind  woman,  with 
whom  I  have  been  talking  about  the  deprivations  of  her 
lot  in  life,  has  offered  to  bake  bread  for  us  when  we  can 
send  the  flour.  The  Painter  is  out  sketching  this  summer 
nest  upon  the  bleak,  surf-washed  rocks,  about  as  wild- 
looking  as  the  nesting-place  of  sea-birds.  Generous- 
hearted  people  !  I  am  pleased  with  their  simple  ways, 
and  their  affectionate,  but  most  respectful  manner 
toward  their  pastor.  Well,  indeed,  they  may  be  both 
respectful  and  affectionate.  His  life  is  a  sacrifice  for 
them  and  their  children.  What  but  the  love  of  Christ 
and  of  men  could  lead  one  here,  and  keep  him  here,  who 
can  ornament  and  bless  the  most  cultivated  society  ? 
I  thank  God,  that  He  gives  us  witness,  in  such  men,  of 
the  power  and  excellency  of  His  grace  upon  the  human 
heart.  We  sail  across  the  harbor  to  a  cove,  or  chasm  in 
the  lofty  sea-wall,  with  the  intention  of  a  walk  over  the 
hills  of  Cariboo,  while  Hutchinson  visits  a  few  of  his  pa- 
rishioners thereabouts. 

After  a  pleasant  ramble,  during  which  we  were  often 


WALK    AMONG    THE   HILLS   OF   CARIBOO. 


181 


tempted  to  run  and  jump  with  very  delight  along  the 
spongy,  springy  moss,  blushing  here  and  there  with  its 
sweet  bloom,  we  sit  down  on  the  top  of  a  high  hill,  and 
look  off  upon  the  ocean  and  the  bay  of  St.  Louis,  extend- 
insr  far  into  the  desolate  interior  like  a  series  of  blue  lakes. 
All  the  beauteous  apparel  of  summer  has  been  stripped 
off,  and  the  brown  and  broken  bones  of  the  sad  earth  are 
bleaching  in  the  wind  and  sun.  You  would  be  delighted, 
though,  with  the  little  vales,  notched  and  shelved  with 
craggy  terraces  that  catch  and  hold  the  sunshine.  They 
have  the  sultry  warmth  and  scent  of  a  conservatory,  and 
are  frequently  rich  with  herbage,  now  in  flower.  It  seems 
a  pity  that  these  nooks  of  verdure  and  floral  beauty 
should  thus  ^^  waste  their  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 
For  a  few  days,  the  woolly  flocks  of  New  England  would 
thrive  in  Labrador.  During  those  few  days,  there  are 
thousands  of  her  fair  daughters  who  would  love  to  tend 
them.  I  prophesy  the  time  is  coming  when  the  invalid 
and  tourist  from  the  States  will  be  often  found  spending 
the  brief,  but  lovely  summer  here,  notwithstanding  its  rug- 
gedness  and  desolation.  Upon  reflection,  a  broad  and  an- 
cient solitude  like  this  has  a  sg.dness  in  it  which  no  bloom, 
no  sun  can  dispel.  Never,  never,  in  all  my  life,  have  I 
beheld  a  land  like  this,  the  expression  and  sentiment  of 
which  are   essentially  mournful   and   melancholy.     The 


182  WALK   AMONG   THE   HILLS  OF   CARIBOO. 

sunshine,  skies,  "the  pomp  and  circumstance  of"  ocean, 
sweet  smells,  and  sounds,  and  one's  own  joyous,  healthy 
feelings,  flowing  out  and  washing  out  as  they  flow  the  nat- 
ural sadness  of  the  soul,  cannot  take  away  nor  cover  up 
that  which  really  and  everlastingly  is,  and  ever  will  be, 
namely,  the  sentiment  of  mournfulness.  Nature  here  is 
at  a  funeral  forever,  and  these  beauties,  so  delicately 
fashioned,  are  but  flowers  in  the  coffin. 

It  is  a  coincidence  a  little  curious  that  I  should  have 
written  these  periods  above,  and  then  have  plunged  into 
just  the  most  lonesome  little  valley  in  all  the  world  to 
hit  upon  a  graveyard.  But  there  it  was,  a  gloomy,  silent 
field,  enclosed  with  the  merest  dry  skeleton  of  a  fence,  for 
no  purpose  to  keep  a  creature  out  where  no  creature  is, 
but  just  to  make  a  scratch  around  the  few  narrow  beds 
where  the  dead  repose,  unpraised  and  unnamed,  under 
the  lightest  possible  covering  of  dust,  as  undisturbed  as 
in  the  deeps  of  the  Atlantic.  From  the  tombless  ceme- 
tery, our  way  back  to  the  vessel  over  the  hills  resembled 
the  crossing  of  mountains  just  below  the  line  of  perpetual 
snow.  Upon  the  summit  we  encountered  a  small  lake 
and  marshes  with  water-plants  and  flowers.  At  the  east- 
ern extremity  of  the  island,  where  the  rocks  break  off 
steeply  some  hundreds  of  feet,  we  saw  every  object  of  the 
port  nearly  beneath,  and  apparently  within  stone's  throw. 


WALK   AMONG   THE   HILLS   OF    CARIBOO. 


183 


A  novel  sight  to  us  was  tlie  bottom  of  the  harbor,  seen 
through  the  clear,  greenish  water  with  considerable  dis- 
tinctness almost  from  end  to  end.  Patches  of  sea-weed, 
dark  rocks,  and  white  gravel,  seemed  to  be  lying  in  the 
bottom  of  a  shallow  mirror,  across  which  small  fishes, 
large  ones  in  reality,  were  wandering  at  their  leisure. 
This  was  a  picturesque  revelation.  Upon  the  surface  of 
the  harbor,  the  depth  of  water  very  nearly  shuts  out  all 
view  of  the  bottom.  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  a  few 
thousand  feet  above  the  ocean,  in  a  bright  day,  would 
enable  the  eye  to  pierce  it  to  an  extraordinary  depth. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

AFTER  THE  BAY  ST.  LOUIS  ICEBERG.— WINDSOR  CASTLE   ICEBERG.— 
FOUNDERS  SUDDENLY.— A  BRILLIANT  SPECTACLE. 

After  dinner,  upon  the  heights  of  Battle  Island, 
gathering  roots,  plants,  and  mosses  to  carry  home.  "Wo 
notice  with  pleasure  the  largest  iceberg  by  far  that  we 
have  ever  yet  seen.  It  is  the  last  arrival  from  Green- 
land, and  is  abreast  Cape  St.  Louis,  in  the  northeast. 
It  is  a  stupendous  thing,  and  reminds  me  of  Windsor 
Castle,  as  I  know  it  from  pictures  and  engravings.  It 
appears  to  be  wheeling  in  toward  the  bay,  with  a  front  of 
great  elevation  and  extent,  finely  adorned  with  projec- 
tions and  massive  towers  not  unlike  those  of  the  regal 
structure  of  which  it  reminds  me.  I  see  by  the 
watch  it  is  nearly  4  p.  m.,  the  time  set  for  our  de- 
parture to  a  Bay  St.  Louis  berg.     Pencil  and  note-book 


AFTER   THE    BAY    ST.    LOUIS   ICEBERG. 


185 


must  be  pocketed,  and  haste  be  made  with  my  vegetable 
gatherings. 

Pencil  and  note-book  reappear,  and  the  sketch  recom- 
mences. Half-way  to  the  chosen  iceberg,  in  the  mouth 
of  the  bay,  rowing  slowly  over  the  glassy,  low  swells,  as 
they  move  in  from  sea.  These  are  the  swells  for  me  : 
broad,  imperial  swells,  full  of  majesty,  dignity,  and  grace  ; 
placid  and  serene  of  countenance  ;  solemn,  slow,  and  si- 
lent in  their  roll.  They  are  the  swells  of  olden  time, 
royal  and  aristocratic,  legitimately  descended  from  those 
that  bore  the  ark  upon  their  bosom,  and  used  to  bear  the 
unbroken  images  of  the  orbs  of  heaven.  Keplete  with 
gentleness  and  love  and  power,  they  lift  us  lightly,  and 
pass  us  over  tenderly  from  hand  to  hand,  and  toss  us 
pleasantly  and  softly  from  breast  to  breast,  and  roll  us 
carefully  from  lap  to  lap,  and  smile  upon  us  with  their 
shiniDg  smiles.  Grand  and  gracious  seas  !  With  you  I 
love  the  ocean.  With  you  I  am  not  afraid.  And  with 
you,  how  kind  and  compassionate  of  you,  ye  old  patrician 
billows  !  with  you  I  am  not  sea-sick.  Save  us  from 
V  those  plebeian  waves,  that  rabble- rout  of  surges,  that 
H  democratic  "  lop,"  lately  born,  and  puffed  into  noisy 
H  importance  !  They  scare  me,  and,  worst  of  all,  make 
H  me  sick  and  miserable. 
^^^    Every  few  minutes  we  hear  the  artillery  of  the  ice- 


186  WINDSOR    CASTLE   ICEBERG. — FOUNDERS. 

bergs,  and  are  on  the  watch  for  fine  displays,  this  warm 

afternoon.     C is  sketching  hastily,  with  the  pencil, 

Windsor  Castle  berg,  now  in  complete  view,  and  distant, 
I  should  guess,  five  miles.  It  is  a  mighty  and  imposing 
structure. 

Between  making  my  last  dot  and  now — an  interval 
of  ten  minutes — Windsor  Castle  has  experienced  the 
convulsions  of  an  earthquake^  and  gone  to  ruin.  To  use 
the  term  common  here,  it  has  "  foundered."  A  maga- 
zine of  powder  fired  in  its  centre,  could  not  more 
effectually,  and  not  much  more  quickly,  have  blown  it 
up.  While  in  the  act  of  sketching,  C suddenly  ex- 
claimed :  when,  lo  !  walls  and  towers  were  falling 
asunder,  and  tumbling  at  various  angles  with  apparent 
silence  into  the  ocean,  attended  with  the  most  prodigious 
dashing  and  commotion  of  water.  Enormous  sheaves  of 
foam  sprung  aloft  and  burst  in  air  ;  high,  green  waves, 
crested  with  white-caps,  rolled  away  in  circles,  mingling 
with  leaping  shafts  and  fragments  of  ice  reappearing 
from  the  deep  in  all  directions.  .  Nearly  the  whole  of 
this  brilliant  spectacle  was  the  performance  of  a  minute, 
and  to  us  as  noiseless  as  the  motions  of  a  cloud,  for  a 
length  of  time  I  had  not  expected.  When  the  uproar 
reached  us,  it  was  thunder  doubled  and  redoubled,  roll- 
ing upon  the  ear  like  the  quick  successive  strokes  of  a 


A    BRILLIANT    SPECTACLE. 


187 


drum,  or  volleys  of  the  largest  ordnance.  It  was  awfully- 
grand,  and  altogether  the  most  startling  exhibition  I 
ever  witnessed.  At  this  moment,  there  is  a  large  field  of 
ruins,  some  of  them  huge  masses  like  towers  prone  along 
the  waters,  with  a  lofty  steeple  left  alone  standing  in  the 
midst,  and  rocking  slowly  to  and  fro. 


CHAPTEK    XXXVIII. 

SUNDAY  IN  LABEADOE.— EVENING  WALK  TO  THE  GEAVEYAED.— THE 
EOCKY  OCEAN  SHOEE. 

Sunday  evening,  July  10.  We  have  had  a  beau- 
tiful and  interesting  day.  Early  in  the  morning,  flags 
were  flying  from  the  shipping,  and  from  the  taU  staff  in 
front  of  the  church,  the  only  bell-tower  of  the  town. 
Boats,  with  people  in  their  Sunday  best,  soon  came  row- 
ing in  from  different  quarters,  for  the  services  of  the  day, 
in  which  I  had  the  pleasure  of  assisting.  The  house, 
seating  about  two  hundred  people,  was  crowded,  morning 
and  afternoon,  with  a  devout  and  attentive  congregation, 
responding  loudly,  and  singing  very  spiritedly. 

Before  sunset,  we  left  the  parsonage  for  a  quiet 
walk.  Falling  into  a  crooked  path,  we  followed  it  to 
the  burying-ground  in  the  bottom  of  a  narrow,  deep 
hollow,  where  time  has  gathered  from  the  surrounding 


EVENING   WALK    TO    THE    GRAVEYARD. 


189 


rocks  a  depth  of  earth  sufficient  for  shallow  graves. 
While  yet  the  sunshine  was  bright  upon  the  high,  over- 
hanging cliffs,  dotted  with  lichens  and  tufted  with  their 
summer  greenery,  the  little  vale  below,  with  its  brown 
gravestones  nearly  lost  in  the  rank  verdure,  was  im- 
mersed in  cool  and  lonesome  shadows.  An  unavoid- 
able incumbrance  of  the  sacred  field  was  several  large 
bowlders,  among  which  the  long  grass,  and  weeds  and 
tablets  were  irregularly  dispersed. 

It  is  the  custom  of  the  English  church  to  consecrate 
burying-grounds.  Eleven  years  ago.  Bishop  Field  conse- 
crated this.  It  was  a  pleasant  Sunday  morning,  and  the 
procession,  with  the  bishop  at  its  head  clothed  in  his  offi- 
cial robes,  descended  by  the  winding  path,  and  performed 
the  appointed  service.  Nearly  the  whole  population  of 
the  region  was  present,  either  in  the  procession,  or  look- 
ing down  with  silent  admiration  from  the  rocky  galleries 
around.  A  better  resting-place,  when  one  lies  dbwn 
weary  from  the  tasks  and  troubles  of  the  present  life, 
could  not  well  be  imagined.  Its  perpetual  solitude, 
never  profaned  by  the  noisy  feet  of  the  busy  world, 
draped  alternately  with  snowy  fleeces  and  blooming 
verdure,  is  always  made  musical  by  the  solemn  mur- 
murs of  the  ocean.  I  found  by  the  inscriptions,  that 
England  was  the  native  country  of  most  of  those  whose 


190  THE  ROCKY  OCEAN  SHORE. 

bones  repose  below,  and  whose  names  are  gathering  moss 
and  lichens,  while  the  sea,  close  by,  sings  their  mournful 
requiem. 

From  this  lone  hamlet  of  the  dead,  we  picked  our 
way  among  broken  rocks  out  to  the  sea  shore,  all  white 
with  the  sounding  surf,  and  gazed  with  silent  pleasure 
on  the  blue  Atlantic,  the  dark  headlands,  and  the  ice- 
bergs glittering  in  the  sunset.  Glittering  in  the  sunset ! 
They  glowed  with  golden  fire — pointed,  motionless,  and 
solid  flames. 

Battle  Island,  had  there  never  been  any  bloody  con- 
test of  angry  men,  would  be  an  appropriate  name.  The 
whole  northeastern  shore,  once  a  lofty  precipice,  no 
doubt,  but  now  a  descent  of  indescribable  ruggedness,  is 
an  extended  field,  whereon  for  ages  flinty  rocks  and 
mighty  waves  have  contended  in  battle.  A  favorite 
walk  of  Hutchinson's,  during  the  wintry  tempests,  is 
along  the  height  overlooking  this  mighty  slope  or  glacis. 
His  quiet  description  of  the  terrible  grandeur  of  the 
scene,  was  truly  thrilling.  In  the  course  of  our  walk,  we 
came  upon  the  verge  of  a  fissure,  which  looked  like  an 
original  intention  to  split  the  island  through  its  centre. 
Banks  of  snow  still  lay  in  the  nooks  and  closets  of  its 
gloomy  chambers,  through  which,  every  now  and  then, 
boomed  the  low  thunder  of  the  plunging  surf. 


THE  ROCKY  OCEAN  SHORE. 


191 


Upon  our  return,  late  in  the  evening,  although  quite 
light,  we  wandered  over  tracts  of  the  elastic,  flowering 
moss.  The  step  is  rendered  exceedingly  bouyant,  and 
invites  you  to  skip  and  bound  through  the  richly  car- 
peted hollows.  After  prayer  at  the  parsonage,  we 
returned  to  the  vessel,  and  talked  in  our  berths  until 
slumber  made  us  silent,  past  midnight. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE  SAIL  TO  FOX  HAEBOE.— A  DAT  WITH  THE  ESQUIMAUX,  AND 
OUE  EETUEN. 

Monday,  July  11.  After  icebergs  in  St.  Michaers 
Bay,  was  to  have  been  the  order  of  the  morning.  It  lies 
northward  forty  miles,  and  usually  abounds  in  icebergs 
of  the  largest  size,  Mr.  Hutchinson  informs  us.  There 
is  not,  however,  the  least  necessity  for  passing  Cape  St. 
Louis,  south  of  which  there  is  ice  enough  in  sight  for  all 
the  painters  in .  the  world.  But  the  charm  of  novelty  is 
almost  irresistible.  Had  we  the  time,  we  would  see  the 
glaciers  themselves,  of  which  these  bergs  are  merely  the 
chippings.  What  has  suddenly  caused  this  change  in 
our  plans  is  an  approaching  storm.  It  will  never  do  for 
us  to  be  out  at  sea  in  a  cold  northeaster,  if  it  possibly  can 
be  avoided.  The  painter  and  I  are  so  given  over  to  sea- 
sickness, in  rough  weather,  that  nothing  can  be  enjoyed, 


I 


THE    SAIL    TO    FOX    HARBOR.  193 

and  nothing  done  with  pen  or  pencil.     The  work  and 

play  of  the  day  are  finally  determined.  •  C with  the 

Captain  will  cruise  southerly  among  the  bergs  of  Belle 
Isle,  and  I  will  go  with  Mr.  Hutchinson  and  Botwood 
north,  across  St.  Louis  water  to  Fox  Harbor,  one  of 
the  points  of  this  extended  parish. 

We  leave,  past  noon  a  little,  sailing  very  pleasantly 
by  the  ices,  which  appear  to  be  in  considerable  motion. 
Several  are  going  to  sea,  and  may  reach  the  track  of  New 
Yorkers  voyaging  to  Europe,  and  be  thought  very  won- 
derful and  fine  ;  and  so  indeed  they  will  be,  should  they 
lose  half  of  their  present  bulk.  There  appears  to  be  no 
end  to  the  combinations  of  these  icy  edifices.  They 
mimic  all  the  styles  of  architecture  upon  earth  ;  rather, 
all  styles  of  architecture  may  be  said  to  imitate  them, 
inasmuch  as  they  were  floating  here  in  what  we  please  to 
call  Greek  and  Gothic  forms  long  before  Greek  or  Goth 
were  in  existence.  Yonder,  now,  is  a  cluster  of  Gothic 
cottages.  I  trace  out  a  multitude  of  peaked  gables  and 
low  porches,  and  think  of  Sunny  Side  upon  the  Hudson. 

Two  hours  have  slipped  away,  and  we  approach  the 
northern  shore,  attended  by  no  less  a  travelling  com- 
panion than  a  small  whale.  Now  he  blows  just  behind 
us,  disappears,  and  blows  again  upon  our  right.  There 
■   he  blows  ahead  of  us.     Plere  he  is  close  upon  our  left. 


I 


194  A   DAY   WITH    THE    ESQUIMAUX. 

The  fellow  is  diving  under  us.  All  this  may  be  very 
pretty  sport  for  the  whale,  but  with  all  the  merry  re- 
marks of  Hutchinson,  respecting  the  good  nature  of  our 
twenty-foot  out-rider,  I  confess  I  am  relieved  to  find  that 
he  is  gradually  enlarging  the  field  of  his  amusements. 

The  mouth  of  Fox  Harbor  all  at  once  discovers  itself, 
and  lets  us  in  upon  a  small  sheet  of  water,  not  unlike  a 
mountain  lake  with  its  back-ground  of  black,  wild  hills. 
A  few  huts,  a  wharf,  and  fish-house  appear  upon  the 
margin  of  the  narrow  peninsula  that  lies  between  the 
harbor  and  the  bay.  The  people  are  pure  Esquimaux 
and  English,  with  a  mixture  from  intermarriage.  The 
patriarch  of  the  place,  perhaps  sixty  years  of  age,  with 
his  wife,  and,  I  believe,  the  elder  members  of  the  family, 
are  natives  of  a  high  latitude,  and  a  good  specimen  of 
the  arctic  race.  They  are  now  members  of  the  English 
Church,  and  for  piety  and  virtue  compare  well  with 
Christians  anywhere. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  their  pastor  held 
divine  service,  and  administered  the  sacrament  of  bap- 
tism. There  were  between  twenty  and  thirty  present, 
old  and  young,  some  of  whom  had  prayer-books  and 
responded.  The  sermon,  which  I  was  invited  to  preach, 
I  made  as  simple  and  practical  as  possible,  and  found 
earnest  and  honest  listeners.     After  an  examination  of 


OUR    RETURN. 


195 


I 


furs  and  snow-shoes,  reindeer  horns,  and  seal-skin,  fresh 
from  the  seal,  and  still  loaded  with  its  fat  or  blubber,  we 
had  an  exhibition  of  the  kayak.  It  was  light  and  tight, 
and  ringy  as  a  drum,  and  floated  on  the  water  like  a 
bubble.  Under  the  strokes  of  the  kayaker,  it  darted  for- 
ward over  the  low  swells  with  a  grace  and  fleetness  un- 
known to  the  birch  bark  canoe.  After  tea,  and  a  very 
good  tea,  too  ;  in  fact,  after  two  teas,  we  bade  the 
Esquimaux  farewell  and  sailed  away,  taking  one  of  their 
number  along  with  us,  who  had  formerly  been  a  servant, 
and  was  now  to  resume  her  old  place  as  such,  in  the 
parsonage.  About  half  way  across  the  bay,  a  squall  from 
sea  struck  us  with  startling  suddenness.  But  our  bold 
young  sailing-master,  Mc  Donald,  the  mate  and  owner 
of  our  vessel,  managed  the  boat  admirably,  and  we  fairly 
flew  through  the  white-caps  to  the  smooth  water  of  our 
harbor.  In  the  evening  we  gathered  in  at  the  parsonage, 
taking  tea,  made  and  served  by  the  Esquimaux  woman, 
telling  the  adventures  of  the  day,  both  north  and  south, 
and  returning  at  midnight  to  our  cabin. 


CHAPTEK    XL. 

A  MOENING  EAMBLE  OVER   CARIBOO.— EXCUESION  ON  THE  BAT,  AND 
THE    TEA-DRINKING    AT    THE    SOLITARY    FISHERMAN'S. 

Tuesday,  July  12.  Cold  as  November,  and  a  gale 
outside.  After  a  late  breakfast,  we  roam  the  bills  of 
Cariboo,  under  tbe  cliffs  of  wbicb  tbe  Integrity  now 
lies  tied  to  tbe  rocks.  We  gatber  roots  and  flowers, 
gaze  upon  tbe  vast  and  desolate  prospect,  count  tbe 
icebergs,  and  watcb  tbe  motions  of  tbe  fog  driving,  in 
large,  cloud-like  masses,  across  tbe  angry  ocean.  It  is 
surprising  bow  mucb  we  do  in  tbese,  to  us,  almost  inter- 
minable days.  But  for  tbe  necessity  of  it,  I  believe  tbat 
we  sbould  not  sleep  at  all,  but  work  and  play  rigbt  on 
from  midnigbt  into  morning,  and  from  morning  down  to 
midnigbt.  We  bave  a  large  afternoon  excursion  before 
us.  Previous  to  tbat,  bowever,  tbe  Captain  and  myself 
are  going  upon  an  exploring  expedition. 


EXCURSION    ON    THE    BAY, 


Coasting  the  soutlierii  shores  of  St.  Louis  water, 
having  a  little  private  amusement  by  ourselves.  The 
breeze,  in  from  sea,  gives  us  about  as  much  as  we  can 
manage.  Gives  us  about  as  much  as  tue  can  manage  ! 
"  Us  "  and  "  We ''  have  not  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it. 
I  This  half  of  the  "us"  and  the  ^'-we,"  the  Me  and  the 
subjective  I,  as  your  Kantian  philosopher  calls  his  essen- 
tial self,  sits  here  about  midship,  bear- skinned  in  with 
a  fleecy  brown  coat,  holding  on,  and  dodging  the  spray 
that  cuffs  him  on  the  right  and  left ;  while  the  other, 
and  vastly  larger  half,  in  the  shape  of  the  captain, 
holds  all  the  reins  of  this  marine  chariot  in  his  own  single 
hand — ropes,  rudder  and  all,  and  holds  them,  too,  well 
and  wisely.  But  we  enjoy  the  freedom  of  these  spirited, 
though  harmless  seas,  and  dash  along  through  most 
charmingly. 

What  coasts  these  are  !  "  Precipitous,  black,  jagged 
rocks,"  savage  as  lions  and  tigers  showing  their  claws 
and  teeth,  and  foaming  at  the  lips.  Here  is  a  chasm 
called  a  cove,  up  which  the  green  water  runs  in  the 
shape  of  a  scimetar  or  horn — the  piercing  and  the  goring 
of  the  sea  for  unknown  centuries.  Away  in  the  extreme 
hollow  of  this  horn  is  a  fishing-flake,  and  half-way  up, 
where  the  sea-birds  would  naturally  nest,  a  Scotch  fisher- 
B    man  has  his  summer-home.     We  are  going  in  to  see  him. 


I 


198  .      THE    FISHERMAN. 

He  met  us  at  the  water's  edge,  and  welcomed  us  with 
a  fisherman's  welcome — none  heartier  in  the  world — and 
sent  us  forward  by  a  zigzag  path  to  the  house  hidden 
away  among  the  upper  rocks.  In  the  very  tightest  place 
of  the  ascent,  there  swept  down  upon  us  an  avalanche 
of  dogs  furiously  barking — a  kind  of  onset  for  which  I 
have  had  a  peculiar  disrelish  ever  since  I  was  overthrown 
by  a  ferocious  mastiff  in  my  childhood.  I  sprang  to  the 
tip  of  a  crag,  and  stood  out  of  their  reach,  while  they 
bristled  and  barked  at  the  Captain,  who  coolly  main- 
tained his  ground.  The  shout  of  the  fisherman's  wife, 
who  now  appeared  on  the  edge  of  the  scene  above,  in- 
stantly stilled  the  uproar,  and  invited  us  up  with  the 
cheering  assurance  that  they  seldom  bit  anybody,  and 
were  rather  glad  than  angry  that  we  had  come.  The 
language  of  dogs  being  very  much  the  same  in  all 
countries,  I  took  occasion  to  doubt  any  pleasure  that 
Bull,  Brindle,  and  Bowse  were  thought  to  have  felt  at 
our  presence.  The  rascals  smelt  closely  at  my  heels 
and  hands,  with  an  accompaniment  of  bristling  backs 
and  tails,  and  deep-throated  growls.  We  were  no 
sooner  in  the  house  and  seated  than  the  goodman  him- 
self arrived,  and  ordered  the  kettle  to  the  fire  for  a  "  bit 
of  tea."  "  It  would  do  us  good,"  he  said.  "  When 
strangers  'came,  he  commonly  had  a  bit  of  tea."     His 


THE    FlSHERMAI^f. 

life  had  been  a  struggle  for  food  and  raiment  :  such  was 
the  tenor  of  his  brief  history.  Four  children  were  with 
him ;  four  were  in  a  better  world.  Forty  years  he  had 
been  a  fisherman.  Thirty,  on  these  shores.  They  came 
up  yearly  from  Carbonear  in  the  early  days  of  June, 
cleared  the  house  of  ice  and  snow,  and  got  ready  for  the 
fish.  Their  dogs,  which  are  their  only  team  in  New- 
foundland, would  be  lost  if  left  behind,  and  so  they 
brought  them  along  to  save  them.  After  tea,  a  fine 
game-cock  took  possession  of  the  floor,  walking  close  in 
front,  looking  up  sideways  in  an  inquisitive  and  comical 
manner,  and  crowing  very  spiritedly.  Hard  by,  in  a  box 
beneath  a  bed,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  red  comb  of  a 
hen,  his  only  mate.  A  little,  flaxen-haired,  blue-eyed 
girl  ran  and  brought  her  out  as  something  to  surprise 
and  delight  us.  And  so  with  cock  and  hen,  and  chil- 
dren, the  fisherman  and  his  wife,  mariner  and  minister, 
we  were  a  social  party.  Thus  the  human  heart  spins 
out  its  threads  of  love,  and  fastens  them  even  to  the 
far-distant  rocks  of  cold  and  barren  Labrador.  They  took 
us  through  their  fish-house,  which  hung  like  a  birdcage 
among  the  crags,  and  afterwards  followed  us  down  to 
the  water,  and  gave  our  bark  a  kindly  push,"  and  thus 
we  parted." 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

PAINTING   THE   CAYEKN   OF   GEEAT   ISLAND,    AND    OUIi   SAIL    HOME- 
WAKD    IN    A    GALE. 

Two  o'clock  P.  M.  The  wind  has  moderated,  and 
blows  from  the  land.  We  sail  out  upon  the  eastern  or 
ocean  side  of  Great  Island.  This  is  not  precisely  the  ex- 
cursion proposed  in  the  morningj  which  was  to  an  iceberg 
in  the  bay.  It  is  the  best^  though,  that  we  can  do,  and 
may  turn  out  very  well.  I  could  wish  a  less  exciting 
passage  in  than  we  had  out,  when,  for  the  first,  I  learned 
the  power  of  wind  to  knock  a  vessel  over  at  a  single  blow. 
It  pounced  upon  us,  as  it  swept  over  the  lofty  ridge  of  the 
island,  in  puffs  and  gusts  quite  frightful.  At  one  mo- 
ment, the  sails  would  be  without  a  breath  ;  at  another, 
the  wonder  is  that  they  were  not  burst  from  their  fasten- 
ings. As  the  Captain  turned  into  the  wind,  the  boat 
would  jump  as  if  going  out  of  the  water.     Some  training 


PAINTING    THE    CAVERN    OF    GREAT    ISLAND. 


201 


is  necessary  for  your  landsman  to  bear  this  with  perfect 
coolness.  After  landing  us,  the  Captain,  with  a  couple 
of  men,  plays  off  and  on  between  a  fishing-fleet  and  shore, 

while  C paints  the  particular  part  of  the  coast  for 

which  we  have  come. 

It  consists  of  what  once  might  have  been  a  grand  cav- 
ern, but  now  fallen  in,  and  all  its  cragged  gulf  opened  to 
the  day.  Into  the  yawning  portal  of  this  savage  chasm 
plunge  the  big  waves  of  the  Atlantic.  In  an  easterly 
gale,  there  is  performed  in  this  gloomy  theatre  no  farce 
of  the  surges,  but  the  grandest  tragedy.  In  fact,  this 
whole  coast,  a  thousand  miles  or  more,  is  built  up,  rather 
torn  down,  on  the  most  stupendous  scale — vast  and  shat- 
tered— terrifically  rough — tumult  and  storm  aU  in  horrid 
stone.  It  would  well  pay  the  painter  of  coast  scenery  to 
spend  a  fall  and  winter  upon  these  shores.  The  breaking 
of  the  waves  upon  such  rocks  as  these  must  be  an  aston- 
ishing spectacle  of  power  and  fury.  The  charge  and  the 
retreat  of  billows  upon  slopes  of  rock  so  torn  and  shat- 
tered, for  miles  and  miles  at  the  same  moment,  Mr. 
Hutchinson  repeatedly  declares,  is  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant and  imposing  sights  on  earth.     While  C is 

painting,  I  have  been  writing  these  periods,  and  clamber- 
ing the  mossy  cliffs  for  plants  and  flowers.     Half-past  7, 

and  Captain  Knight  below,  waiting  for  us  near  the  mouth 
9* 


202  OUR   SAIL    HOMEWARD   IN    A    GALE. 

of  the  chasm.  The  fishing-fleet  is  dispersing,  homeward- 
bound,  and  we  are  now  ready  to  put  up  paint  and  pencil, 
and  join  in  the  general  run. 

There  is  nothing  like  a  dash  of  peri]  to  wake  one  up. 
Now  that  I  am  quietly  sitting  by  the  cabin  candles,  I 
will  sketch  you  our  passage  in.  These  notes  are  usually 
taken  on  the  spot  ;  upon  the  occasion  of  which  I  am  at 
present  speaking,  my  note-book  was  buttoned  in  pretty 
tightly  in  its  pocket. 

It  was  blowing  a  gale,  but,  fortunately  for  us,  from 
the  land.  In  from  sea,  the  same  wind  would  have  driven 
all  into  the  surf.  Close-reefed  as  we  were,  and  under  the 
island,  with  a  capital  craft,  and  Captain  Knight,  the 
very  best  of  sailors,  it  was  quite  enough  for  us.  We  were 
almost  over  at  times.  The  sharp,  short  seas  thumped 
our  bows  like  sledge-hammers.  The  spray  flashed  across 
like  water  from  an  engine.  There  were  the  hum  and 
trembling  of  a  swiftly  revolving  wheel.  When  she  came 
into  the  wind  for  a  tack,  all  shook  and  cracked  again,  and 
then  sang  on  shrill  and  wildly  as  shuttle-like  we  shot  to 
the  next  point  of  turning.  A  few  small  islands  make  a 
net-work  of  channels.  Through  this  entanglement  we 
and  the  fishing-fleet  were  now  making  our  way  home, 
crossing  and  recrossing,  shooting  here  and  there,  singly 
and  in  pairs,  with  sails  black,  white,  and  red — a  lively  and 


OUR    SAIL    HOMEWARD    IN    A    GALE. 


203 


picturesque  sight,  and  just  the  prettiest  play  in  all  the 
world.  In  a  narrow,  strait  leading  into  the  harbor,  we 
were  nearly  baffled.  The  tempest,  for  to  such  it  had  in- 
creased, at  some  moments,  seemed  to  fall  upon  us  from 
above,  flattening  the  swells,  and  sweeping  the  spray  about 
as  a  whirlwind  sweeps  the  dust.  Back  and  forth  we  dart- 
ed between  the  iron  shores,  wheeling  in  the  nick  of  time, 

and  losing  nearly  as  often  as  we  gained.     C and  I 

lay  close  below  the  booms,  and  watched  the  strife  as  one 
might  watch  a  battle  round  the  corner  of  a  wall.  Wrap- 
ped in  heavy  overcoats,  and  wet  and  chilly,  we  came,  not- 
withstanding, to  enjoy  it  vastly.     C fairly  overflowed 

with  fun  and  humor.  But  what  admirable  sailors  are 
these  northern  seamen,  in  their  schooner  whaleboats  ! 
the  very  Tartars  and  Camanches  of  the  ocean  !  They  go 
off  to  the  fishing-grounds  in  stormy  weather,  and  stay 
with  unconquerable  patience  at  their  hard  and  dangerous 
labor.  Under  the  cliffs  of  Cariboo  we  glided  into  calm 
water,  and  looked  back  at  the  dark  and  troubled  deep,  in 
broad  contrast  with  the  clouds  and  icebergs  resplendent 
with  rosy  sunlight. 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

AFTER  THE  ICEBERG  OF  BELLE  ISLE.— THE  EETEEAT  TO  CAET- 
WEIGHT'S  TICKLE.— BRIDGET  KENNEDY'S  COTTAGE,  AND  THE 
LONELY    STROLL    OYER    CARIBOO. 

Wednesday,  July  13.  "We  rise  with  the  inten- 
tion of  spending  the  day  in  Belle  Isle  water  to  the 
south,  around  what  we  call  the  Great  Castle  Berg — an 
object,  from  the  first,  of  our  particular  regard.  The 
breeze  freshens  from  the  north,  but  the  Captain  thinks 
we  may  lie  safely  to  the  leeward  of  the  ice,  and  so  sketch 
and  write.  Battle  Harbor  has  a  narrow  and  shallow  pas- 
sage into  the  south  water.  We  have  slipped  through 
that,  and  are  now  scudding  before  a  pleasant  north- 
easter, directly  toward  the  castle,  and  the  northern  cape 
of  Bell  Isle.  We  are  having  a  long  ground-swell,  rough- 
ened with  a  "lop"  or  short  sea,  and  the  promise  of 
high  wind.  The  fishing  boats,  more  out  to  sea,  are  put- 
ting in — a  signal  for  our  retreat.  We  confess  ourselves 
beaten  for  the  day,  and   run  for  Cartwright's  Tickle,  a 


THE    RETREAT    TO    CARTWRIGHT  S    TICKLE. 


205 


small  inlet,  a  mile  or  so  distant.  And  a  merry  run  of  it 
we  are  having  ;  a  kind  of  experience  to  whicli  we  were 
put  yesterday  afternoon.  Wet  with  spray,  and  chilly, 
we  are  glad  to  jump  ashore  at  Mrs.  Bridget  Kennedy's 
fishing-flake. 

Kind  woman,  she  was  on  the  spot  to  ask  us  up 
"  to  warm,  and  take  a  drop  of  tea,"  although  no  later 
than  10  o'clock.  Mrs.  Kennedy,  a  smart  Irish  Tyidow  of 
Newfoundland,  is  "  the  fisherman  ; "  and  has  men  and 
maidens  in  her  employ.  While  the  tea  was  really 
refreshing,  and  the  fire  acceptable,  the  smoke  was  ter- 
rible— a  circumstance  over  which  I  wept  bitterly, 
wiping  away  the  tears  with  one  hand,  while  I  plied 
the  hot  drink  with  the  other.  From  this  painfully 
afiecting  scene  I  was  presently  fain  to  retire  to  a  sunny 
slope  near  by,  where  I  was  soon  joined  by  my  companion 
in  suffering,  who  indulged  himself,  perhaps  too  freely,  in 
remarks  that  reflected  no  great  credit  on  the  architect 
and  builder  of  Mrs.  Kennedy's  summer-house  and  chim- 
ney. I  cannot  say  that  we  wasted,  but  we  whiled  away, 
not  overwillingly,  the  best  part  of  two  hours,  looking 
around — looking  across  a  bight  of  water,  at  a  nest  of 
flakes  and  huts  on  the  hill-side,  to  which  Swiss  cottages 
are  tame — looking  ove*r  upon  the  good  woman's  garden, 
the  merest  spot  of  black,  in  which  there  is  nothing  but 


206  BRIDGET  Kennedy's  cottage. 

soil  slightly  freckled  with  vegetation,  fenced  in  -with  old 
fish-net  to  keep  out  the  fowls,  and  a  couple  of  goats — 
looking  at  the  astonishment  of  our  sailors  over  a  syphon, 
made  from  the  pliant,  hollow  stalk  of  a  sea-weed, 
through  which  water  flowed  from  the  surface  of  the  sea 
into  a  basin  placed  upon  the  beach  ;  quite  a  magical  per- 
formance they  fancied  it,  until  explained. 

Tired  of  "waiting  for  the  wind  to  lull  sufficiently  for 
an  escape  back  by  sea,  I  resolved  to  foot  it  over  the  hills 
to  Battle  Harbor,  and  have  come  off  alone.  I  am  sit- 
ting on  the  moss,  out  of  the  breeze,  on  the  warm  side  of 
a  crag,  "  basking  in  the  noontide  sun ;  disporting  here 
like  any  other  fly.''  A  part  of  the  aforesaid  amusement 
consists  in  scribbling  these  notes,  and  especially  the  ones 
relating  our  enjoyments  and  trials  at  hospitable  Bridget 
Kennedy's. 

From  the  hill-top  above  me  I  had  a  wide  prospect 
of  the  dark,  rough  ocean  ;  and  of  darker  and  rougher 
land.  Looking  westerly,  what  should  I  discover  but  the 
painter,  silent  and  motionless,  looking  out  from  another 
hill-top  ?  Beyond  him,  far  inland,  is  a  chain  of  purple 
mountains,  lording  it  over  the  surrounding  tumult  of 
brown  and  sterile  hills,  in  the  mossy  valleys  of  which, 
they  say,  are  dwarf  woods  of  birch  and  spruce,  pretty 
brooks,  and  reaches  of  blue  sea- water. 


THE  LONELY  STROLL  OVER  CARIBOO. 


207 


I  have  turned  my  walk  back  to  the  vessel,  into  a 
regular  hohday  stroll,  jotting  down  from  time  to  time 
whatever  happens  to  please  me.  These  deep  amphi- 
theatres opening  out  of  the  hills  to  the  sea,  are  quite 
charming,  and  novelties  in  landscape.  And  how  almost 
painfully  still  they  are  !  But  for  the  dull  roar  of  the 
surf,  they  would  he  silent  as  paintings.  The  cloudless 
sun,  pouring  its  July  brightness  into  them,  gives  them  a 
hot-house  sultriness  ;  and,  in  their  moist  places,  almost 
a  hot-house  growth.  The  universal  moss,  the  turf  of  the 
country,  carpets  their  depths  and  graceful  slopes,  and 
lies  upon  their  shelves  like  the  richest  rugs  ;  bright  red, 
green,  and  yellow,  and  sprinkled  with  small,  sweet- 
smelling  flowers.  Along  the  margin  of  the  sea  all  is 
cracked  and  slashed,  and  has  no  pretty  beach.  Here 
now  is  a  fast  little  brook,  eagerly  driving  its  spirited 
steed  down  one  of  these  rocky  cuts.  Pleased  with  its 
speed,  it  hurras  and  cracks  its  whip,  and  swings  its 
white-plumed  cap,  all  in  its  way,  as  if  rivers  were  look- 
ing on,  and  cataracts  were  listening  with  delight.  Sniy 
rivulet !  it  sounds  like  water  in  a  mill-wheel,  and  will  in 
a  moment  more  be  lost  in  the  great  deep.  Here  again, 
a  few  steps  higher  up  the  vale,  the  rill  expands  into  a 
pool,  daintily  cushioned  round  its  edges.  I  he  down 
and  drink  ;   kneel  down  and  wash  my  hands  ;   wash  my 


208  THE   LONELY    STROLL    OVER    CARIBOO. 

handkerchief  and  spread  it  in  the  sun  to  dry.  Poor  little 
fishes !  They  dart  and  dodge  about,  as  if  they  had  never 
felt  before  the  look  of  a  human  face.  Over  there  is  a 
bed  of  grass,  luxuriant  as  grain,  witb  a  sprinkling  of  those 
cotton-tufted  rushes.  And  I  sing,  as  I  sang  in  my  boy- 
hood : 

"  Green  grow  the  rushes,  0 1 
'Tis  neither  you  nor  I  do  know, 
How  oats,  peas,  beans,  .and  barley  grow." 

After  this  lyrical  feat,  I  straighten  up,  and  look  all 
around,  to  see  if  any  one  hears  me,  but  only  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  tiny  waterfall ;  a  little  virgin  all  in  white, 
spinning  her  silvery  thread,  as  she  looks  out  of  her  cham- 
ber window  among  the  rocks  above.  For  all  the  world  ! 
Here  comes  a  fly — one  of  our  own  house  flies — the  same 
careless,  familiar  fellow,  whose  motto  is  :  "  The  dwelling 
owes  me  a  living."  Now  what  do  you  expect,  you  self- 
complacent  little  vagabond,  standing  here  on  my  hand, 
and  rubbing  your  head  at  this  rate,  looldng  me  in  the 
face,  with  all  the  thousand  eyes  you  have,  and  none  of 
the  modesty  of  bugs  finely  dressed,  and  vastly  your  supe- 
rior ?  I  do  suppose  myself  the  first  Yankee  here,  and 
here  you  are.  Away  with  you  !  I  have  a  mind  to  run 
up  yonder  soft  and  sunny  hiU-side,  and  roll  over  and  over 
to  the  bottom.     I  did  run  up  the  hill-side,  but  not  to  roll 


THE  LONELY  STROLL  OVER  CARIBOO. 


209 


back  to  the  foot  of  it,  on  this  most  springy  of  all  turfs. 
I  sat  down  and  panted,  wiping  the  moisture  from  my 
forehead,  and  breathing  the  cool  ocean  breeze.  A  half 
hour's  walk  brought  me  over  to  the  brow  of  the  moun- 
tain, with  the  harbor  and  its  vessels  at  my  feet. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

THE   ICEBEEG   OF   THE   FIGUEE-HEAD— THE   GLOKY  AND  THE  MUSIC 
OF    THE    SEA    AT   EVENING. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  breeze  gone  down. 
We  are  off  on  the  gentle  rollers  of  the  Bay  of  St.  Louis, 
after  a  low,  broad  iceberg,  covering,  say,  an  acre  of  sur- 
face, and  grounded  in  forty  fathoms  of  water.  It  has 
upon  one  extremity  a  bulky  tower  of  sixty  feet,  on  the 
other,  forty,  and  in  the  middle  a  huge  pile  of  ice  blocks 
of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  the  ruins  of  some  spire.  While 
the  outside  of  this  heap  of  fragments  is  white,  with  tints 
of  green,  touched  here  and  there  with  what  seems  to  be 
the  most  delicate  bronze  and  gilding ;  every  crevice, 
where  there  is  a  shadow  lurldng,  is  a  blue,  the  purity 
and  softness  of  which  cannot  be  described  nor  easily 
imagined.  To  one  who  has  any  feeling  for  color,  it  has 
a  sentiment  as  sweet  as  any  thing  in  all  visible  nature.  A 
pure,  white  surface,  like  this  fine  opaque  ice,  seen  through 


THE   ICEBERG   OF    THE    FIGURE-HEAD. 


deep  shade  produces  blue,  and  such  a  blue  as  one  sees 
in  the  stainless  sky  when  it  is  full  of  warmth  and  light. 
It  is  quite  beyond  the  rarest  ultramarine  of  the  painter. 
The  lovely  azure  appears  to  pervade  and  fill  the  hollows 
like  so  much  visible  atmosphere  or  smoke.  One  almost 
looks  to  see  it  float  out  of  the  crystal  cells  where  it  re- 
poses, and  thin  away  into  colorless  air. 

We  have  just  been  honored  by  a  royal  salute  from 
the  walls  of  the  alabaster  fortress.  Our  kind  angels  will 
keep  us  at  a  safer  distance  than  we  are  disposed  to  keep 
ourselves.  A  projecting  table  has  fallen  with  that  pecu- 
liarly startling  crack,  quick  as  lightning  and  loud  as 
thunder.  It  seems  impossible  for  my  nerves  to  become 
accustomed  to  the  shock.  I  tremble,  in  spite  of  myself, 
as  one  does  after  a  fright.  The  explosion  unquestionably 
has  the  voice  of  the  earthquake  and  volcano.  To  my 
surprise,  I  find  myself  with  cold  feet  and  headache — those 
unfailing  symptoms  of  sea-sickness.  By  the  painful  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  I  suspect,  the  painter  is  even  worse 
off  than  myself.  It  is  impossible  to  avoid  feeling  both 
vexed  and  amused  at  this  companionship  in  misery.  In 
his  case,  the  climax  has  been  attained.  Laying  down 
bcx  and  brushes  with  uncommon  emphasis,  he  made  a 
rapid  movement  to  the  edge  of  the  boat,  and  looked  over 
at   his   own  image  reflected  in  the   glassy,  oily-rolling 


212       GLORY    AND    MUSIC    OF    THE    SEA    AT    EVENING. 

swell,  with  loud  and  violent  demonstrations  of  disagree- 
ment with  himself.  After  this  unhappy  outbreak,  he 
wiped  away  the  tears,  and  returned  subdued  and  com- 
posed to  the  gentler  employment  of  the  paint-box. 

It  is  nearly  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  with  the 
downiest  clouds  dropped  around  the  retiring  sun.  What 
light  must  be  behind  them  to  fill  them  with  such  wealth 
of  color,  and  dye  their  front  with  such  rich  and  varied 
red  !      The   very   waves   below   bloom   with   a   crimson 

splendor.     C has  finished  his  pictures,  and  we  row 

around  the  berg,  a  singularly  irregular  one,  both  above 
and  below  the  surface.  The  surrounding  water,  to  the 
eye  nearly  black,  is  irradiated,  star-like,  with  tracts  of 
the  clear,  tender  green.  The  effect  upon  us  is  inde- 
scribably fine.  I  think  of  deep  down  caverns  of  light 
shining  up  through  the  dark  sea.  The  blocks  and  bowl- 
ders, wrecks  of  former  towers,  which  lie  scattered  and  in 
heaps  upon  the  main  berg,  are  like  the  purest  alabaster 
on  their  outer  and  upper  sides,  but  of  that  heavenly 
azure  in  their  fissures  and  spaces,  although  wrapped  in 
the  one  great  shade  of  evening.  We  now  pause  at  the 
corner  of  the  ice,  and  look  down  both  its  northern  and 
western  fronts  ;  the  upper  stories,  to  all  appearance,  in 
rough  marble — the  lower,  polished  as  a  mirror.  Almost 
over  us,  a  Greek-like  figure-head,  sculptured  from  shin- 


GLORY   AND    MUSIC    OF    THE    SEA    AT    EVENING.      213 


ing  crystal,  gazes  with  serene  majesty  upon  the  white 
daylight  in  tlie  northwest.  Possessed  with  the  mournful 
and  nearly  supernatural  beauty,  we  forget  the  dangers  of 
this  intimacy.  There  is  a  strange  fascination,  and  par- 
ticularly at  this  hour,  that  draws  like  the  fabulous  music 
of  the  Sirens.  We  are  headed  homeward,  riding  silently 
over  the  glassy  waves.  The  surf  rings  in  the  hollows  of 
the  iceberg,  and  sounds  upon  the  shores  like  the  last 
blows  of  the  weary  day. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

CAPE    ST.    CHAELE9.— THE     KIP    VAN    WINKLE     BEEG.— THE    GEEAT 
CASTLE    BEEG.— STUDIES    OF    ITS    DIFFEEENT   FEONTS. 

Thuksday,  Juhj  14.  Off  again  for  the  Great  Castle 
Berg.  The  passage  from  Battle  Harbor  into  tlie  south 
waters  is  a  shallow,  rocky  lane,  and  furnishes  very  rare 
studies  of  color  in  stone.  A  large  agate  cut  across  would 
serve  the  painter  very  well  as  a  sample  of  much  that  is 
seen  here  along  the  rough  margin  of  this  little  strait. 
Wave- washed,  and  sparkling  with  mica  and  crystalliza- 
tions, and  tinged  with  green  and  yellow  mosses  soft  as 
plush,  the  rocks  are  frequently  very  beautiful.  Foremost 
along  the  coast,  reaching  southwest  into  the  straits  of 
Belle  Isle,  is  Cape  St.  Charles,  a  brown  promontory,  rising, 
as  it  recedes  from  the  sea,  into  rocky  hills  tinged  with  a 
pale  green,  the  moss-pastures  of  the  reindeer.  Beyond  the 
cape  is  a  bay  with  mountain  shores,  not  unlike  those  of 
Lake  George.     The  fine  smoke-like  shadow  along  their 


w 
o 


I 


THE    RIP    VAN   WINKLE    BERG.  215 

sides  is  dappled  with  olive-green  and  yellowish  tracts  of 
moss  and  shrubbery.  The  annual  expenditure  of  nature, 
on  those  poor  mountains,  for  clothing  and  decoration  is 
very  small.  She  furnishes  holiday  suits  of  cheap  and 
flimsy  cloud,  and  the  showy  jewelry  of  the  passing  show- 
ers, but  refuses  any  bounteous  outlay  for  the  rich  and 
sumptuous  apparel  of  green  fields  and  forests.  Beneath 
those  sunny  but  desolate  heights,  there  slumbers,  in  the 
purple,  calm  waters,  an  iceberg  with  a  form  and  expression 
that  harmonize  with  the  landscape.  I  would  call  it  the 
Kip  Van  Winkle  iceberg.  It  seems  to  have  been  lying 
down,  but  now  to  be  half  up,  reposing  upon  its  elbow. 
Its  head,  recently  pillowed  on  the  drowsy  swells,  wears  a 
shapeless,  peaked  hat,  from  the  tip  of  which  is  dropping 
silvery  rain  through  the  warm,  dreamy  air.  Between  the 
calm  and  the  currents,  our  oarsmen  are  having  a  warm 
time  of  it.  I  lay  hold  and  labor  until  my  hands  smart, 
and  I  feel  that  hot  weather  has  come  at  last  to  Labrador. 
We  rest  in  front  of  the  Great  Castle  Berg,  the  grand 
capitol  of  the  city  of  icebergs  now  in  the  waters  of  Belle 
Isle,  and,  if  I  except  the  Windsor  Castle  Berg  which  wc 
saw  founder,  the  largest  we  have  seen,  and,  what  is  most 
likely,  the  largest  we  ever  shall  see.  We  merely  guess  at 
I  the  dimensions.  Sailing  up  the  Niagara  in  the  little 
M  steamer,  how  wide  should  you  judge  the  falls  to  be  from 


I 


I 


216  THE  GREAT  CASTLE  BERG. 

* 

Table  Kock  across  to  the  horse-slioe  tower  ?  I  judge 
this  ice-front  to  be  two-thirds  that  width,  and  quite  as 
high,  if  not  higher,  than  the  cataract.  If  this  were  float- 
ed up  into  that  grand  bend  of  Niagara,  I  think  it  would 
fill  a  large  part  of  it  very  handsomely,  with  a  tower  rising 
sufficiently  above  the  brink  of  the  fall  to  be  seen  from  the 
edge  of  the  river  for  some  distance  above.  Imagine  the 
main  sheet,  reaching  from  Table  Kock  toward  the  Horse- 
shoe, to  be  silent  ice,  and  you  will  have  no  very  wrong  no- 
tion of  the  ice  before  us  at  this  moment.  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  it  has  the  bend  of  the  great  cataract,  for  it  is 
on  this  side  quite  devoid  of  flowing  lines,  and-  abounds 
with  the  perpendicular  and  horizontal  for  about  fifty  feet 
from  the  water,  when  the  long  and  very  level  lines  begin 
to  be  crossed  by  a  fluted  surface,  resembling  the  folds 
of  carefully  arranged  drapery  hanging  gracefully  from  the 
serrated  line  at  the  top.  No  other  side  will  present  this 
view  at  all.  Change  of  position  gives  an  iceberg  almost 
as  many  appearances  as  a  cumulous  cloud  assumes  at  sun- 
set in  the  summer  sky. 

We  have  rounded  an  angle  to  the  southern  front,  and 
look  upon  a  precipice  of  newly  broken  alabaster  crowned 
with  a  lofty  peak  and  pinnacles.  A  slight  sketch  seems 
to  satisfy  the  painter,  and  so  we  pass  round  to  the  eastern 
or  ocean  side,  at  which  Captain  Knight,  an  experienced 


STUDIES    OF   ITS   DIFFERENT   FRONTS.  217 

iceberger/ expresses  both  delight  and  surprise.  It  is  a 
cluster  of  Alpine  mountains  in  miniature  :  peaks,  preci- 
pices, slopes  and  gorges,  a  wondrous  multitude  of  shining 
things,  the  general  effect  of  which  is  imposing  and  sub- 
lime. We  have  been  looking  out  from  Battle  Island 
upon  this  for  days,  and  never  dreamed  of  all  this  world 
of  forms  so  grand  and  beautiful.  Besides  the  main,  there 
are  two  smaller  bergs,  but  all  nothing  more  than  the 
crowning  towers  and  spires  of  the  great  mass  under  the 
sea.  Here  is  quite  a  little  bay  with  two  entrances,  in 
which  the  pale  emerald  waves  dash  and  thunder,  washing 
the  pearly  shores,  and  wearing  out  glassy  caverns.  The 
marvellous  beauty  of  these  ices  prompts  one  to  speak  in 
language  that  sounds  extravagant.  Had  our  forefathers 
lived  along  these  seas,  and  among  these  wonders,  we 
should  have  had  a  language  better  fitted  to  describe 
them.  I  can  easily  suppose  that  there  must  be  a  strong 
descriptive  element  in  the  Icelandic,  and  even  in  the 
Greenlandic  tongues.  I  am  quite  tired  of  the  words  : 
emerald,  pea-green,  pearl,  sea-shells,  crystal,  porcelain  and 
sapjjhire,  ivory,  marble  and  alabaster,  snowy  and  rosy, 
Alps,  cathedrals,  towers,  pinnacles,  domes  and  spires.  I 
could  fling  them  all,  at  this  moment,  upon  a  large  descrip- 
tive fire,  and  the  blaze  would  not  be  sufficiently  brilliant 

to  light  the  mere  reader  to  the  scene.     I  will  give  it  up, 
10 


218  STUDIES    OF   ITS   DIFFERENT    FRONTS. 

at  least  for  the  present,  and  remark  merely  that  we  have 
received  what  the  French  newspapers  occasionally  receive 
— a  warning.  It  came  in  the  shape  of  a  smart  cracking 
of  rifles  in  some  large  reverberating  hall.  There  is  un- 
doubtedly at  hand  the  finest  opportunity  one  could  wish 
of  witnessing  an  ice-fall.  As  it  is  now  nearly  8  o'clock 
p.  M.,  and  the  painting  done,  we  shall  take  a  hasty  leave, 
and  content  ourselves  with  a  distant  view  of  ice- exhibi- 
tions, tame  as  they  are,  when  contrasted  with  those  more 
dangerously  close  by.  Our  men  have  had  some  trouble 
in  keeping  the  boat  up  to  the  berg  in  the  right  place  for 
painting,  (so  powerful  is  the  current  on  this  side  setting 
away,)  and  are  glad  of  a  change. 


CHAPTER   XLY. 

THE  SAIL  FOR  ST.  CHARLES  MOUNTAIN.— THE  SALMON  FISHEPwS.— 
THE  CAVERN  OF  THE  ST.  CHARLES  MOLTJTAIN.— BURTON'S  COT- 
TAGE.—MAGNIFICENT  SCENE  FROM  ST.  CHARLES  MOUNTAIN.— 
THE  PAINTING  OF  THE  RIP  YAN  WINKLE  BERG.— THE  ICE-VASE, 
AND  THE  RETURN  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


Our  sails  are  up,  and  we  glide  landward,  stopping  to 
warm  at  a  hut  on  a  rocky  islet.  Two  young  fellows,  en- 
gaged here  in  the  salmon  fishery,  welcomed  us  to  their 
cabin,  and  soon  made  their  rusty  old  cooking-stove  hot 
enough.  The  salmon  are  taken  very  much  like  our  river 
shad,  in  nets  set  in  sheltered  waters.  We  have  frequent- 
ly sailed  past  them,  and  seen  the  salmon  entangled  in  the 
meshes  at  quite  a  depth  in  the  clear  sea  water,  where 
they  have  the  singular  appearance  of  yellow  serpents 
writhing  and  bounding  in  the  folds  of  the  seine — an  op- 
tical illusion  caused  by  the  distorting  and  magnifying 
efiects  of  the   rolling  surface.     These  young   fishermen 


220     THE  CAVERN  OF  ST.  CHARLES  MOUNTAIN. 

have  several  hogsheads  filled,  and  are  about  closing  up 
for  the  season.  They  were  not  a  little  amused  with  the 
idea  of  our  coming  so  far  to  visit  icebergs,  but  expressed 
surprise  that  we  would  run  the  risk  of  being  close  about 
them  in  such  warm  weather.  After  a  walk  over  their 
island,  the  merest  crest  of  rough  rocks,  in  a  storm  washed 
very  nearly  from  end  to  end,  we  set  off  for  St.  Charles 
Mountain,  quite  lofty  and  rising  perpendicularly  from  the 
sea.  It  is  gashed  and  pierced  with  black  chasms,  some 
of  which  are  whitened  with  a  kind  of  snowy  glacier.  We 
are  now  approaching  a  cavern  to  all  appearance  spacious 
enough  for  the  dusk  of  a  very  pretty  little  twilight,  with 
a  doorway  fifty  feet  in  width  and  a  clear  three  hundred 
feet  high.  The  summit  of  the  hill  is  six  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  above  the  tide,  and  the  square-headed  portal 
reaches  all  but  half-way  up.  The  ocean  goes  deep  home 
to  the  precipice,  and  so  we  sail  right  in.  With  the  wet, 
black  walls  and  the  chilly  shade  behind,  we  look  back 
upon  the  bright,  sparkling  sea  and  the  shining  icebergs. 
The  sound  of  the  waves  rings  and  rolls  through  the  huge 
space  like  the  deep  bass  of  a  mighty  organ.  We  retreat 
slowly,  rising  and  sinking  on  the  dark,  inky  swells  coming 
in,  and  steer  for  Mr.  Barton's,  the  sole  inhabitant  of  the 
small  bay  close  by,  where  we  hope  for  supper. 

Between   our   landing   and   the    supper,    two   hours 


SCENE    FROM    ST.    CHARLES   MOUNTAIN. 


passed,  during  which  G painted  the  Rip  Van  Winkle 

berg,  and  I  ascended  the  mountain.  Crossing  a  little 
dell  to  the  west  of  the  house,  through  which  flow  a 
couple  of  tinkling  rills  bordered  with  rank  grass,  and 
sheeted  with  flowers  white  and  fragrant,  I  struck  the 
foot  of  a  small  glacier,  or  chasm  filled  with  perpetual 
snow,  and  commenced  the  ascent.  At  first  I  was 
pleased  with  the  notion  of  climbing  this  mer-de-neige, 
and  went  up  right  merrily,  crossing  and  recrossing, 
stepping  sharply  into  the  thawing  surface  in  order 
to  secure  a  good  foothold.  But  as  I  wound  my  way 
up  the  cold  track,  beginning  to  be  walled  in  by  savage 
crasrs,  it  seemed  so  lonesome,  and  sounded  so  hollow 
below,  and  looked  so  far  down  and  steep  behind  me, 
that  I  became  suspicious,  and  afraid,  and  timidly  crept 
out  upon  its  icy  edge,  and  leaped  to  the  solid  cliff.  By 
this  time  I  was  too  warm  with  a  heavy  overcoat,  and  left 
it  hanging  upon  a  rock  against  my  return.  Cold  and 
windy  as  it  was,  I  was  glowing  with  heat  when  I 
reached  the  top. 
H  The  prospect  was  a  new  one  to  me,  although  long 

H  accustomed  to  mountain  views,  and  more  impressive 
H  than  any  thing  of  the  kind  I  can  remember.  Rather 
H  more  than  half  of  the  great  circle  was  filled  with  the 
B    ocean  ;    the   remainder  was   Labrador,  a   most   desolate 


222  SCENE    FEOM    ST.    CHAELES    MOUNTAIN. 

extent  of  small  rocky  mountains,  faintly  tinted  here  and 
there  with  a  greenish  gray,  and  frequently  slanting  down 
to  lakes  and  inlets  of  the  sea.  It  may  be  said  that 
Neptune,  setting  his  net  of  blue  waters  along  this 
solitary  land,  sprung  it  at  last  and  caught  it  full  of 
these  bony  hills,  so  hopelessly  hard  and  barren,  that 
he,  poor  old  fellow,  appears  to  have  thought  it  never 
worth  his  trouble  to  look  after  either  net  or  game. 
Quite  in  the  interior  were  a  few  summits  higher  than 
the  St.  Charles,  the  one  upon  which  I  was  standing. 
The  sun  was  looking  red  and  fiery  through  long  lines 
and  bars  of  dun  clouds,  and  shed  his  rays  in  streams 
that  bathed  the  stern  and  gloomy  waste  with  wonder- 
ful brightness.  Seaward,  the  prospect  exceeds  any  power 
of  mine  at  description.  I  have  no  expectation  of  wit- 
nessing again  any  such  magnificence  in  that  field  of 
nature.  Poets  and  painters  will  hereafter  behold  it, 
and  feel  how  suggestive  it  is  of  facts  and  truths,  past, 
present,  and  to  come.  The  coast — that  irregular  and 
extended  line  far  north,  and  far  away  south  and  west, 
upon  which  the  ocean  and  the  continent  embrace  and 
wrestle — with  its  reefs  and  islets,  inlets,  bays,  and  capes, 
waves  breaking  into  snowy  foam,  twilight  shadows 
streaming  out  upon  the  sea  from  behind  the  headlands, 
and  the  lights  of  sunset  glancing  through  the  gorges  and 


SCENE    FROM    ST.    CHARLES    MOUNTAIN. 


223 


vallej's  of  the  shore,  all  combined  to  weave  a  fringe  of 
glory  both  for  land  and  ocean.  The  sky  over  the  ocean 
was  of  great  extent,  and  gave  a  wonderful  breadth  and 
vastness  to  the  water.  There  was  truly  "  the  face  of 
the  deep."  And  a  most  awful,  yet  a  glorious  counte- 
nance it  was,  and  most  exquisitely  complexioned,  re- 
flecting faintly  both  the  imagery  and  the  hues  of  heaven, 
the  bright,  the  purple  and  the  blue,  the  saffron  and  the 
rosy.  Belle  Isle,  with  its  steep  shores  reddening  with 
light;  lay  in  the  south,  lovely  to  look  upon  but  desolate 
in  reality,  and  often  fatal  to  the  mariner.  Looking 
farther  south  and  southwest,  a  dark  line  lay  along  the 
sky — the  coast  of  Newfoundland.  I  was  looking  up  the 
straits  of  Belle  Isle.  All  the  sea  in  that  quarter,  under 
the  last  sunlight,  shone  like  a  pavement  of  amethyst, 
over  which  all  the  chariots  of  the  earth  might  have 
rolled,  and  all  its  cavalry  wheeled  with  ample  room. 
Wonderful  to  behold  !  it  was  only  a  fair  field  for  the 
steepled  icebergs,  a  vast  metropolis  in  ice,  pearly  white 
and  red  as  roses,  glittering  in  the  sunset.  Solemn,  still, 
and  half-celestial  scene  !  In  its  presence,  cities,  tented 
fields,  and  fleets  dwindled  into  toys.  I  said  aloud,  but 
low  :  "  The  City  of  God  !  The  sea  of  glass  !  the  plains 
of  heaven  "  !  The  sweet  notes  of  a  wood-thrush,  now 
lost    in   the   voices   of    the   wind,    and   then   returning 


224  SCENE    FliOM    ST.    CHARLES    MOUNTAIN. 

with  soft  murmurs  of  the  surf,  recalled  me  from  the 
reverie  into  which  I  had  lapsed  unconsciously,  and  I 
descended  carefully  the  front  of  the  mountain  until  I 
stood  just  above  the  portal  of  the  lofty  cavern  into  which 
we  had  sailed.  The  fishing-boats  in  a  neighboring  cove, 
moored  for  the  night,  appeared  like  corks  upon  the  dark 
water,  and  Burton's  house  like  the  merest  box.  He  was 
just  ashore  from  his  salmon-nets,  and  was  tossing  the 
shining  fishes  from  his  boat  to  the  rocks,  I  counted 
seven. 

Coming  round  upon  the  northern  slope,  I  was 
tempted  by  the  mossy  footing  to  try  the  reindeer 
method,  and  went  bounding  to  the  right  and  left  until 
I  was  brought  up  waist-deep  in  a  thicket  of  crisp  and 
fragrant  evergreens.  When  I  say  thicket,  do  not  fancy 
any  ordinary  cluster  of  shrubs,  such  as  is  common,  for 
example,  among  the  Catskills.  This,  of  which  I  am 
speaking,  and  which  is  found  spotting  these  cold  hill- 
sides, is  a  perfect  forest  in  miniature,  covering  a  space 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  across,  compact  as  a  phalanx  of 
soldiery,  and  from  three  feet  to  six  inches  high.  In  fact, 
it  reminds  me  of  a  train-band  standing  straight  and  trim, 
and  bristling  with  bayonets.  The  little  troop  looked  as 
if  it  was  marching  up  the  mountain,  the  taller  ones  in 
front,  and  the  little  inch-fellows  following  in  the  rear,  all 


SCENE    FEOM    ST.    CHARLES   MOUNTAIN. 


225 


keeping  step  and  time.  There  are  gentlemen  on  the 
Hudson  -and  around  our  cities,  that  would  give  a  thou- 
sand dollars  for  such  a  tiny  little  wood.  It  is  an  ex- 
quisite curiosity,  and  must  excel  the  dwarf  shrubhery 
of  the  Japanese.  The  little  trees — no  mere  yearHngs 
playing  forest — are  venerable  with  moss  and  lichens, 
and  bear  the  symbols  of  suffering  and  experience.  All 
are  well-developed,  complete  trees,  mimicking  the  forms 
and  the  ways  of  majestic  firs.  The  lower  boughs  droop 
with  a  sad,  mournful  air,  and  their  pointed  tops  look  up 
into  the  sunshine  and  down  upon  the  minute  shrubbery 
below,  with  the  gloomy  repose  of  dark,  old  pines.  It 
made  me  laugh.  As  I  waded  through  the  pigmy  woods, 
running  my  fingers  through  the  loftier  tops,  as  I  would 
run  them  through  the  hair  of  a  curly-headed  child,  and 
stepping  over  hills  and  dales  of  green  forest,  I  was 
highly  amused,  both  at  the  little  woodlands  and  the 
moral  of  the  thing.  Cutting  an  armful  of  the  sweet- 
scented  branches,  and  thinking  of  the  children  at  home 
as  I  dinted  the  mossy  pincushions  bright  as  worsted- 
work  all  over  the  ground,  I  hastened  to  regain  my  coat, 
and  get  down  to  the  fisherman's.  The  painter  soon 
came  in,  when  we  sat  down  to  an  excellent  supper  of 
tea  and  fried  salmon,  and  presently  set  sail  by  moon- 


light. 


10* 


226  PAINTING    THE    RIP    VAN    WINKLE    BERG. 

Among   the  incidents   of  painting  the   berg,  C 

related  one  of  some  novelty.  It  was  in  deep  water, 
hut  close  to  the  shore,  and  so  nicely  poised  that  it 
was  evidently  standing  tiptoe-like  on  some  point,  and 
vibrating  largely  at  every  discharge  of  ice.  Near  by  as 
it  was,  ho  could  paint  from  the  shore  with  security — a 
rare  chance  in  summer.  A  heavier  fall  than  usual 
from  the  part  fronting  the  land  was  followed  by  corre- 
spondingly large  vibrations,  leaving  the  berg^  after  it 
had  settled  to  rest,  leaning  toward  the  sea  with  new 
exposures  of  ice.  Among  these  was  an  isolated  mass 
resembling  a  superbly  fashioned  vase.  Quite  apart  from 
the  parent  berg,  and  close  to  the  rocks,  it  first  appeared 
slowly  rising  out  of  the  sea  like  some  work  of  enchant- 
ment, ascending  higher  and  higher  until  it  stood,  in  the 
dark  waters  before  him,  some  twenty  feet  in  height — a 
finely  proportioned  vase,  pure  as  pearl  or  alabaster,  and 
shining  with  the  tints  of  emerald  and  sapphire  through- 
out its  manifold  flutings  and  decorations.  It  was  act- 
ually startling.  As  it  was  ascending  from  the  sea,  the 
water  in  the  Titanic  vase,  an  exquisite  pale  green, 
spouted  in  all  directions  from  the  corrugated  brim,  and 
the  waves  leaped  up  and  covered  its  pedestal  and  stem 
with  a  drift  of  sparkling  foam.  While  in  the  process  of 
painting  this  almost  magical  and  beautiful  apparition, 


THE  ICE-VASE,  AND  THE  RETURN  BY  MOONLIGHT.   227 


I 


nearly  one  half  of  the  bowl  burst  off  with  the  crack  of  a 
rifle,  and  fell  with  a  heavy  plunge  into  the  sea.  How 
much  in  olden  times  would  have  been  made  of  this  !  In 
the  twilight  of  truth  it  is  easy  to  see  that  there  is  but 
a  step,  an  easy  and  a  willing  step,  from  plain  facts  into 
wild  and  fanciful  forms  of  superstition.  On  our  way 
back  to  harbor,  we  passed  the  Kip  Yan  Winkle  iceberg, 
and  saw  his  broken  goblet  pale  and  spectral  in  the  moon- 
light. How  lengthy  will  be  the  slumbers  of  the  ven- 
erable wanderer  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  mountain, 
there  is  none  but  the  hospitable  Burtons  to  report. 
For  their  sakes,  whose  salmon-nets  his  ponderous  move- 
ments along  shore  have  greatly  disturbed,  it  is  to  be 
hoped  he  wiU  speedily  perish  and  be  buried  where  he  is, 
or  wake  up  and  be  off  to  sea  with  the  dignity  befitting 
an  iceberg  of  so  much  character. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

AFTER    OUE    LAST    ICEBEEG.— THE   ISLES.— TWILIGHT   BEAUTIES    OF 
ICEBEEGS.— MIDNIGHT    ILLUMINATION. 

Friday,  July  15.  This  is  another  of  the  summer 
days  of  Labrador,  with  a  soft,  southerly  wind,  tempting 
one  to  ramble  in  spite  of  musquitoes  and  black  flies, 
which,  though  few,  are  uncommonly  pestilent.  The 
painter  is  sleeping  from  very  weariness,  and  I  am  loiter- 
ing about  these  cliffs,  note-book  in  hand,  in  a  drowsy 
state,  for  a  similar  reason.  These  long  days  and  late 
hours  about  headlands  and  icebergs  are  attended  with 
their  pains  as  well  as  pleasures.  From  the  tenor  of  my 
pages  one  would  think  that  all  was  joyous  and  interest- 
ing. Let  him  reflect,  that  for  his  sake  I  record  the  joy- 
ous and  the  interesting,  and  pass  by  the  dull  and  the 
vexatious.  I  flit  from  frowning  cliff"  to  cliff  where  the 
surf  thunders  and  Leviathan  spends  his  holiday  among 
the  capelin,  and  linger  in  the  sunshine  and  shadow  of 


AFTER    OUR    LAST    ICEBERG. 


au  iceberg,  the  choicest  among  fifty,  but  give  you  but  a 
suspicion  of  the  common  things  between.  The  spark- 
ling points  of  the  life  of  this  novel  voyage  are  for  the 
reader's  eye  ;  the  chill  and  the  weariness,  and  the  sea- 
sickness, and  the  mass  of  things,  lumpish  and  brown  in 
"  the  light  of  common  day,"  are  for  that  tomb  of  the 
Capulets  away  back  in  the  fields  of  one's  own  memory. 
But  to  return  :  this  kind  of  life  begins  to  wear  upon  us, 
to  wear  upon  the  nerves,  and  suggests  the  importance  of 
keeping  dull  and  still  awhile. 

I  find  myself  looking  towards  home,  looking  that  way 
over  the  sea  from  the  hill-tops,  and  rather  dreading  the 
rough  and  tumble  and  chances  of  the  journey.  I  regret 
that  time  will  not  permit  a  continuation  of  the  voyage, 
at  least  as  far  as  Sandwich  Bay,  where  the  mountains 
are  now  covered  with  snow.  We  shall  visit,  this  after- 
noon and  evening,  our  last  iceberg,  and  mainly  for  some 
experiments  with  lights.  The  rocks  here,  among  which 
I  saunter,  are  a  kind  of  gallery  tufted  with  wild  grass 
and  herbage,  up  to  which  a  few  goats  climb  from  the 
dwellings  near  our  vessel,  and  upon  a  patch  of  which  I 
lounge  and  scribble.  If  there  were  any  spirit  in  me,  the 
fine  prospect,  although  somewhat  familiar,  would  awaken 
some  fresh  thoughts  and  feelings.  One  thought  comes 
swelling  up  from  the  sluggish  depths — it  is  this  :  There 


230  AFTER    OUR   LAST    ICEBERG. 

is  a  fascination  in  these  northern  seas,  with  their  ices  and 
their  horrid  shores.  The  arctic  voyagers  feel  and  act 
under  its  impulse.  I  can  understand  their  readiness  to 
return  to  polar  scenes. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  sailing  up  the  bay,  after  an 
ugly  iceberg  of  no  particular  shape  or  remarkable  at- 
traction. In  New  York  Bay,  it  would  be  thought  a 
most  splendid  thing,  and  so  indeed  it  would  be  ;  but  here, 
in  contrast  with  the  great  berg  of  Belle  Isle  water,  and 
many  others,  it  is  a  small  matter,  a  harmless  and  dull 
specimen  of  its  kind.  Its  merit  is  its  convenience. 
And  yet,  let  me  tell  you,  we  pause  in  our  approach  at 
a  distance  of  seventy  yards.  I  am  not  willing  to  go 
any  nearer  upon  this,  the  cliff  side.  The  agent,  Mr. 
Bendle,  told  us  this  morning,  that  when  he  first  came 
from  England  to  these  shores,  he  was  fond  of  playing 
about  icebergs,  and  once  rowed  a  boat  under  a  lofty  arch, 
passing  quite  through  the  berg,  a  thing  that  he  could  not 
now  be  persuaded  to  attempt.  The  wind  blows  rather 
strongly,  and  we  lie  to  the  leeward  of  the  ice,  rolling 
quite  too  much  for  painting.  There  is  no  accounting  for 
these  currents  which  flow  in  upon,  and  flow  away  from 
these  bergs.  The  submarine  ice  so  interferes  with  the 
upper  and  lower  streams  that  the  surface  water  rolls  and 
whirls  in  a  manner  upon  which  you  cannot  calculate. 


THE   ISLES. 


231 


Under  the  leeward  here,  one  would  naturally  suppose 
that  the  current  would  set  toward  the  ice,  and  require  an 
effort  on  our  part  to  keep  away.  The  contrary  is  the 
case.  Two  good  oars  are  busy  in  order  to  hold  us  up  to 
our  present  position.  The  wind  and  the  swell  increase, 
and  so  we  make  sail  and  scud  to  some  small  islands  dis- 
tant half  a  mile.  We  moor  our  boat  under  the  shelter 
of  the  rocks  and  clamber  up,  look  around  upon  the  ruins 
washed  and  rusty,  and  take  a  run. 

At  seven  o'clock  I  sit  down  on  the  warm  side  of  a 
crag,  and  look  about  with  the  intention  of  seeing  what 
there  is  worth  looking  at  in  a  spot  to  which  one  might 
flee  who  was  tired  of  seeing  too  much.  Upon  the  word 
of  a  quiet  man,  I  find  myself  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
beautiful,  and  ought  to  be  thankful  that  we  are  here, 
and  wish  that  we  might  be  suffered  to  come  again.  And 
what  is  there  here  ?  Wise  men  have  written  volumes 
over  less.  I  do  not  know  but  here  are  groups  of  the 
South  Sea  Isles  in  miniature.  For  example,  separated 
from  us  by  a  narrow  gulf  of  water,  and  such  clear,  bright 
water,  is  an  islet  with  a  ridge,  a  kind  of  half-moon  crest, 
carpeted  with  olive-tinted  moss,  over  which  the  lone  sun 
pours  a  stream  of  almost  blinding  light.  What  glory 
the  God  of  nature  sheds  upon  these  rugged  outworks  of 
the   earth  !      The  painter  that  could  faithfully  repeat 


232  THE    ISLES. 

upon  canvas  this  one  effect  of  light  would  leave  Claude 
and  Cole,  and  the  like,  far  enough  behind  to  be  forgotten. 
The  wind  is  lulling  ;  the  sun  touches  and  seems  to  burn 
the   crest   of  the   island   opposite,    after   eight   o'clock. 

C is  finishing  a  sketch ;  the  Captain  and  I  have 

been  hunting  the  sea-pigeons'  nests,  a  pair  of  which  keep 
flying  off  and  on  ;  and  now  the  men  are  making  the  boat 
ready  for  our  twilight  and  evening  play  around  "the 
ugly  iceberg."  How  glad  the  poor  little  family  of  ducks 
must  be,  from  whose  home  we  have  driven  them,  that  we 
are  going  away.  They  have  been  .pretending  to  swim  off, 
and  yet  have  managed  to  keep  back  near  enough  to  watch 
us  over  the  shoulder,  ever  since  we  arrived.  Timid, 
cunning  fellows,  how  much  they  appear  to  know  !  A 
stone  disperses  them,  some  to  the  wing  and  some  to  the 
bottom  ;  and  now  here  they  are  again,  all  riding  the 
same  swell,  and  seeming  to  swim  away  while  they  watch 
our  motions,  continually  turning  their  slick,  black  heads 
quickly  over  the  shoulder. 

If  you  would  look  upon  the  perfectly  white  and  pure, 
see  an  iceberg  between  you  and  the  day's  last  red 
heavens.  If  you  would  behold  perfect  brilliancy,  gaze 
at  the  crest  of  an  iceberg  cutting  sharply  into  those 
same  red  heavens.  To  all  appearance  it  will  burn  and 
scintillate  like    a   crown   of    costly  gems.      In  all  its 


TWILIGHT    BEAUTIES.  233 

notched,  zigzag  and  flowing  outline,  it  palpitates  and 
glitters  as  if  it  were  bordered  with  the  very  lightning. 
He  that  watches  the  Andean  clouds  of  a  July  sunset, 
and  beholds  them  rimmed,  now  with  pink  and  rose-hues, 
and  now  with  golden  fire,  will  see  the  edges  of  an  iceberg 
when  it  stands  against  the  sky  glowing  with  the  yellow 
and  orange  blaze  of  sunset.  We  go  to  the  skies  for  pure 
azure  ;  you  will  find  it  at  twilight  in  these  wonderful 
Greenland  ices.  I  am  looking  now  upon  what  mimics 
the  ruins  of  a  tower,  every  block  of  which,  in  one  light, 
gleams  like  crystal ;  in  another,  as  if  they  had  been 
quarried  from  the  divinest  sky.  Cloud-like  and  smoke- 
like, they  look  light  as  the  cerulean  air.  This,  as  I  have 
said  already,  is  the  effect  of  perfect  white  seen  through 
deep,  transparent  shadow.  True  azure  is  the  necessary 
result.  More  than  enough,  it  would  seem,  has  been  said 
of  these  forms  and  colors.  But  really  the  eye  never 
wearies  of  these  arctic  palaces  so  grandly  corniced  and 
pillared ;  these  sculptures  so  marvellously  draped.  As 
we  gaze  at  them,  even  in  this  meagre  and  common  berg, 
under  this  delicate  light  veiled  with  the  dusk  of  evening, 
they  are  astonishing  in  their  beauty.  I  look  at  them 
with  joyful  emotions,  with  wonder  and  with  love.  Why 
do  they  not  rustle  with  a  silken,  satin  rustle  ? 

After  dark,   we   sailed   round   to   the   northern   ex- 


234  MIDNIGHT    ILLUMINATION. 

tremity,  where  from  the  lowness  of  the  ice  it  was  more 
safe  to  approach  it,  and  dropped  sail  in  order  to  experi- 
ment with  the  blue  lights  furnished  us  by  the  governor. 
Eowing  up  quite  closely,  within  eight  yards  perhaps, 
C— — ,  who  stood  ready  upon  the  bow,  fired  a  couple. 
In  the  smoke  and  glare  "  we  were  a  ghastly  crew,"  while 
the  berg  was  rather  obscured  than  beautified.  We  then 
rowed  round  to  the  side  where  the  current  w^as  setting 
rapidly  towards  the  ice,  and  launched  a  flaming  tar- 
barrel.  With  a  stone  for  ballast,  it  kept  upright,  and 
floated  in  fine  style  directly  into  the  face  of  the  berg — 
an  irregular  cliff  of  sixty  feet,  pierced  with  caverns.  It 
was  kept  for  some  time  under  a  succession  of  the  bright- 
est flashes  of  pink  light.  Upon  one  slope  of  the  swells 
the  sheaf  of  red  flames  gushing  from  the  barrel  would  be 
turned  from,  on  the  other,  toward  the  ice.  Thus  the 
whole  eastern  front  was  kept  changing  from  light  to 
darkness,  from  darkness  to  light.  As  the  brightness  was 
flung  back  and  forth  from  the  sea  to  the  berg,  and  from 
the  berg  to  the  sea,  the  effect  was  exceedingly  novel  and 
beautiful.  When  the  swells  bore  the  full-blown  torch 
into  a  cave,  and  its  ruddy  tongues  were  licking  the  green, 
glassy  arches,  we  hoisted  sail  and  went  ~  gaily  bounding 
back  to  harbor.  For  a  while,  the  fire  shot  its  fitful 
rays  over  the  lonely  waters,  and  gleamed  "  like  a  star  in 


MIDNIGHT    ILLUMINATION. 


235 


I 


the  midst  of  the  ocean."  At  last  it  was  quenched  in  the 
distant  gloom.  A  ghostly  figure  with  dim  outline  was 
aU  that  was  visible,  and  our  work  and  play  with  icebergs 
were  over — over  forever.  It  was  midnight  and  past,  when 
we  dropped  sails  alongside  the  vessel,  after  a  quick  run, 
enlivened,  as  we  entered  the  harbor,  by  a  sudden  display 
of  the  northern-light. 


CHAPTEE  XLYII. 

FAEEWELL    TO    BATTLE    IIAEBOE.— THE    STEAITS    OF    BELLE    ISLE.- 
LABEADOE   LANDSCAPES.-THE    WEECK    OF   THE    FISHEEMEN. 

Saturday,  July  16.  "  Once  more  upon  the  waters,  yet 
once  more."  We  were  awakened  from  sound  slumbers  by 
the  footsteps  and  voices  of  the  men  above,  making  ready 
for  sea.  It  was  a  pleasant  sound,  and  the  sunshine 
streaming  down  into  the  cabin  was  welcome  intelligence 
of  the  brightness  of  the  morning.  We  dressed  in  time  to 
get  on  deck,  and  wave  a  final  adieu  to  our  friends,  from 
whom  we  had  formally  parted  yesterday,  as  well  as  from 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bendle,  of  whose  hospitality  we  bear  away 
agreeable  recollections. 

And  now  the  broad  Atlantic  is  before,  and  Cape 
St.  Louis,  its  waters  and  its  ices,  behind  the  intervening 
islands.  The  signal  staffs  of  Battle  and  Cariboo  Islands 
are  yet  visible  from  the  high  rocks  that  overlook  that 
busy  nest  of  fishermen,  with  its  steepled  church  and  par- 


FAREWELL    TO    BATTLE    HARBOR.  237 

sonage.  God's  love  abide  with  the  man  that  lives  there, 
and  ministers  to  the  religious  wants  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  who  have  little  else  than  respect  and  affection 
to  make  his  home  comfortable  and  happy.     While  kind 

(hearts,  and  none  kinder  than  those  of  the  Esquimaux, 
throb  beneath  rough  manners  and  uncomely  raiment, 
there  are  wicked  spirits  there,  no  doubt,  as  everywhere, 
that  hurt  and  hinder,  and  never  help,  and  render  the 
solitary  path  among  the  rocks  insufferably  lonesome  and 
painful.  The  remembrances  of  famous  and  beloved  kin- 
dred, of  old  and  honored  Cambridge,  and  of  the  quiet 
rectory  under  the  Malvern  Hills,  are  much  to  a  cultivated 
and  sensitive  nature  ;  the  bliss  that  flows  from  daily 
duties  cheerfully  done  with  an  habitual  resignation  to  the 
will  of  God,  and  with  hopes  of  glory  in  the  future,  is 
more  than  recollections,  to  a  heart  whose  motive  powers 

■  are  Christian  faith  and  love.  But  amid  all  the  sweetest 
memories,  and  the  brightest  hopes,  and  the  comforting 

Hi  satisfaction  of  believing  well  and  doing  well,  it  is  a  fear- 
ful thing  for  cultivated  man  to  toil  in  solitude  and  de- 
privation.    Although  heaven  is  above  him,  and  his  path- 

^M  way  certainly  upward,  yet  a  double  portion  of  all  those 

"  good  and  perfect  gifts  coming  from  above,  be  awarded  to 
the  man  whose  parish  is  in  Labrador  ;  who,  when  he 
leaves  the  still  companionship  of  books  for  the  toils  of  the 


23S  THE    STRAITS    OF    BELLE    ISLE. 

gospel  from  door  to  door,  must  take  down  either  his  oars 
or  his  snow-shoes,  and  sweep  over  the  snow-drift  or  the 
billow. 

We  now  beat  slowly  up  the  straits  of  Belle  Isle  for  the 
Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  hoping  to  pass  these  dangerous 
waters  by  daylight.  They  are  very  fair  to  look  upon  at 
this  time  of  day,  studded  in  all  directions  with  those  shin- 
ing palaces  of  ice  seen  from  the  top  of  St.  Charles  Moun- 
tain. The  coast  hills  have  a  graceful  outline,  and  slant 
quite  smoothly  down,  abutting  on  the  sea  in  low  broken 
cliffs.  They  resemble  the  hills  of  Maine  and  Canada 
after  April  thaws,  while  the  heavier  snow-drifts  yet  re- 
main, and  the  yellow  brown  sod  is  patched  with  faint 
green.  Forsaken  country  !  if  that  can  be  called  forsaken 
which  appears  never  to  have  been  possessed.  Doleful  and 
neglected  land  !  Chilly  solitude  keeps  watch  over  your 
unvisited  fields,  and  frightens  away  the  glory  of  the  fruit- 
ful seasons.  The  loving  sunshine  and  the  healing  warmth 
wander  hand  in  hand  tenderly  abroad,  calling  upon  the 
lowly  moss  to  wake  up  and  blossom,  and  to  the  tiny, 
half-smothered,  flattened  willows  to  rise  and  walk  along 
the  brook  banks.  But  the  white-coated  police  of  winter, 
the  grim  snow-drifts,  watch  on  the  craggy  battlements 
of  desolation,  and  luxuriance  and  life  peep  from  their 
dark  cells  only  to  sink  back  pale  and   spiritless.     To  a 


LABRADOR    LANDSCAPES.  239 

traveller  there  is  real  beauty  on  the  tawny  desert  and  the 
wild  prairie  ;  but  there  is  to  me  an  awful  lonesomeness 
and  gloom  in  these  houseless  wastes  where  the  eye  with 

■fan  insane  perverseness  will  keep  looking  for  cottage 
smokes  and  pasture  fences.  I  think  of  landscapes  drying 
off  after  the  flood. 

The  bergs  are  in  part  behind  us,  and  we  are  rocking 
on  the  easy  swells  of  Henly  Harbor,  where  we  can  glean 
no  more  signs  of  human  "  toil  and  trouble  "  than  are  just 
enough  to  tie  a  name  to,  and  quite  a  pretty  name  too. 
The  lazy  sails  flap  idly  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  cold  air 
cuts  with  the  sharpness  of  a  frosty  October  morning.  I 
sit  in  the  July  heat  with  overcoat,  and  cloak  over  the  over- 
coat, woollen  mittens  and  woollen  stockings,  and  with 
cold  feet  at  that.  And  yet  this  miserable  shore  has,  in 
its  cod  and  salmon,  attractions  for  thousands  of  people 
during  the  transient  summer.  Even  the  long  and  almost 
arctic  winter  with  its  seals  and  foxes  detains  hundreds. 
But,  as  a  fisherman  told  me  one  day,  while  tossing  upon 

K  the  dock  with  his  pitchfork  a  boat-load  of  cod,  "  It  is  a 
poor  trade."  It  is  a  little  trying  to  patience  to  be  rolling 
in  this  idle  way,  with  the  creak  of  spars  and  the  rattling 
of  blocks  and  rigging,  especially  as  a  breeze  has  been 

ewin.Q-m!!?  the  blue  water  for  an  hour  not  more  than  a  mile 
)f  us.     We  do  move  a  little,  just  a  little,  enough 


240  THE    WRECK    OF    THE    FISHERMEN. 

to  keep  the  hope  breathing  that  we  shall  soon  move  off 
with  reasonable  speed. 

The  current  is  almost  a  river  stream,  and  we  are  drift- 
ing rapidly,  which  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  thinking 
about,  with  these  waters  scouring  the  very  banks,  and  a 
short  cable.  I  am  gazing  back  upon  the  southern  point 
of  Belle  Isle  with  a  mournful  interest.  It  was  only  the 
night  of  the  second,  the  same  night  we  ran  into  Twillin- 
gate  to  escape  a  gale,  that  a  vessel  was  lost  there,  and  all, 
or  nearly  all,  on  board  perished.  At  this  moment  there 
is  a  faint  line  of  white,  but  not  a  murmur.  All  looks 
quiet  there  and  peaceful,  as  if  the  lion  was  going  up  to 
lie  down  with  the  lamb. 


CD 

o  • 


I 


CHAPTER    XLYIIT. 

SKETCHING   THE   PASSING    BEEGS.— THE  STOEY  OP  AN  ICEBEEG. 

The  painter  is  a  model  of  industry,  sketcliing  and 
painting  the  bergs  as  we  pass  them.  They  are  now  clus- 
tered on  the  northern  horizon,  with  a  few  exceptions. 
We  have  been  for  some  time  near  one,  out  of  which 
might  be  cut  an  entire  block  of  Broadway  buildings,  evi- 
dently presenting  the  same  upper  surface  that  it  had 
when  it  slid  as  a  glacier  from  the  polar  shore.  If  such  is 
the  fact,  we  infer  that  in  its  long  glacial  experience  it 
could  not  have  remained- long  near  any  mass  of  earth 
higher  than  itself,  for  there  is  not  a  stone  or  particle  of 
dust  or  earthy  stain  upon  it.  It  is  as  spotless  as  a  cloud 
"  after  the  tempest."  How  beautiful  is  the  sentiment  of 
it !  It  carries  the  imagination  away  to  those  heavenly 
walls  depicted  in  Revelation,  and  sends  it  back  upon  the 

track  of  its  own  story. 
11 


242  THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG. 

The  story  of  an  iceberg  !  yes,  indeed  ;  and  a  most 
wonderful  tale  would  it  be,  could  it  be  truthfully  written. 
It  would  run  up  into,  and  become  lost  in  the  story  of  the 
great  glaciers  of  Greenland  ;  the  half  of  which  science  it- 
self has  not  learned,  profoundly  as  it  has  penetrated  the 
mysteries  of  the  Alpine  glaciers. 

There  are  valleys  reaching  from  the  interior  to  the 
coast,  filled  with  glaciers  of  great  depth  and  breadth, 
which  move  forward  with  an  imperceptible  but  regular 
motion.  The  continent,  as  one  might  call  Greenland, 
does  not  shed  the  bulk  of  its  central  waters  in  fluid  rivers, 
but  discharges  them  to  the  ocean  in  solid,  crystalline,  slow- 
ly progressing  streams.  They  flow,  or  rather  march,  with 
irresistible,  mighty  force,  and  far-resounding  footsteps, 
crossing  the  shore  line,  a  perpetual  procession  of  block- 
like masses,  flat  or  diversified  with  hill  and  hollow  on  the 
top,  advancing  upon  the  sea  until  too  deeply  immersed 
longer  to  resist  the  buoyant  power  and  pressure  of  the 
surrounding  waters,  when  they  break  upwards,  and  float 
suspended  in  the  vast  oceanic  abyss.  The  van  of  the  gla- 
cial host,  previously  marked  ofl*  by  fissures  into  ranks, 
rushes  from  the  too  close  embrace  of  its  new  element,  and 
wheels  away,  an  iceberg — the  glistening  planet  of  the  sea, 
whose  mazy,  tortuous  orbit  none  can  calculate  but  Him 
who  maps  the  unseen  currents  of  the  main. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG.  .         243 

When  and  where,  on  the  lengthy  Greenland  coast, 
did  this  huge  block  make  the  grand  exchange  of  de- 
ments ?  Which,  if  any  of  these  great  buildings  "  not 
made  with  hands/'  now  whitening  the  blue  fields  of  Nep- 
tune, followed  or  preceded  it  ?  What  have  been  its  sol- 
emn rounds  ?  Through  what  winters  has  it  slept,  and 
caught  the  snows  upon  the  folds  of  its  sculptured  draper- 
ies ?  How  many  summers  has  it  bared  its  spotless  bosom 
to  the  sun  and  rains  ?  What  nights  of  auroral  splendors 
have  glassed  their  celestial  countenance  in  its  shining  mir- 
rors ?  What  baths  and  vases  of  blue  water  have  opened 
their  pure  depths  to  moon  and  stars  ?  What  torrents 
and  cascades  have  murmured  in  its  glassy  chasms,  crystal 
grottoes,  Alpine  dells  ?  And  who  shall  count  its  battles 
with  the  waves  and  tempests,  when  with  the  surf  about 
its  shoulders  and  among  its  locks,  and  the  clouds  around 
its  brow,  it  stood  far  up  from  the  unsounded  valleys  of 
ocean  "  tiptoe  on  the  mountain  top  "  ? 

In  the  defiles  and  gorges  of  the  Arctic  coast  are  pro- 
digious accumulations  of  ice — the  congelation  of  small 
streams  flowing  from  the  adjacent  mountains-^the  glaciers 
m  of  the  coast  range,  in  short.  These  gradually  encroach 
"  upon,  and  overhang  the  sea  ;  and  are  continually  breaking 
_  off,  from  the  undermining  of  the  waves  which  beat  at  their 
B  base.     Such  is  the  depth  of  water,  that  the  hugest  ava- 


244  THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG. 

lanche  of  ice  can  fall  with  safety  to  itself,  and  float 
away. 

When,  and  in  what  bay  or  inlet,  may  this  Great 
Northern  have  been  launched  ?  Out  of  what  gloomy 
fiord  may  have  rolled  the  billows,  after  its  icy  fastenings 
were  loosed,  and  it  slid,  with  the  thunder  of  an  earth- 
quake, down  its  slippery  ways,  and  plunged  into  the  black 
deep  ? 

Until  science  have  her  beaten  pathway  over  polar 
waves  and  hills,  and  measure  the  rain-falls  and  the  snow- 
falls, and  the  freezings  of  the  one  and  the  compactings 
of  the  other,  the  story  of  the  glacier  and  the  iceberg,  in 
their  native  land  and  seas,  will  be  left,  in  part,  to  the 
imagination — a  faculty,  after  all,  that  will  ever  deal  with 
those  wonderful  ices  about  as  satisfactorily  as  the  faculty 
that  judges  according  to  the  sense,  as  Bishop  Leighton 
calls  the  mere  scientific  faculty.  The  truth  of  this  is 
illustrated  by  the  very  icebergs  about  us.  Emphatically 
as  they  speak  to  the  naturalist  with  his  various  instru- 
mentalities, they  speak,  at  the  same  moment,  with  mar- 
vellous eloquence  to  the  poet  and  the  painter.  There  are 
forces,  motions,  and  forms,  voices,  beauties,  and  a  senti- 
ment, which  escape  the  touch  of  science,  and  are  scarcely 
caught  by  the  subtle,  poetic  mind.  Icebergs,  to  the 
imaginative  soul,  have  a  kind  of  individuality  and  life. 


I 
I 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG.  245 

They  startle,  frighten,  awe  ;  they  astonish,  excite,  amuse, 
delight  and  fascinate  ;  clouds,  mountains  and  structures, 
angels,  demons,  animals  and  men  spring  to  the  view  of 
the  beholder.  They  are  a  favorite  playground  of  the 
lines,  surfaces  and  shapes  of  the  whole  world,  the  heavens 
above,  the  earth  and  the  waters  under  :  of  their  sounds, 
motions  and  colors  also.  These  are  the  poet's  and  the 
painter's  fields,  more  than  they  are  the  fields  of  the  mere 
naturalist,  much  as  they  are  his.  Do  not  these  fifty 
bergs,  in  sight  from  any  crag  frowning  in  its  iron  strength 
above  the  surf,  speak  more  a  living  language  to  the  crea- 
tive, than  to  the  mensural  faculty  ?     Let  us  see. 

They  have  a  daily  experience,  and  a  current  history 
more  remarkable  now  than  ever.  Whatever  may  have 
been  the  wonders  of  their  conception,  birth  and  growth  ; 
however  lengthy  and  devious  their  voyage,  they  are  present 
in  these  strange  seas,  in  these  tepid  waters  and  soft  airs, 
to  undergo  their  last,  fatal  changes,  and  dissolve  forever 
into  their  final  tomb.  There  are  fifty  icebergs,  more  or 
less.  Apparently  similar  in  appearance,  yet  each  differs 
widely  from  all  others.  Exhibiting  similar  phenomena, 
yet  each  has  complexions,  movements,  sounds  and  won- 
ders of  its  own.  If  we  choose,  though,  to  add  to  the  per- 
formances of  to-day,  those  of  yesterday  and  to-morrow, 
M    we  shall  find  that  the  experience  of  any  one  berg  closely 

■I 


246  THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBKRG. 

resembles  that  of  all.  The  entire  circle  of  its  looks  and 
doings  corresponds  with  the  circle  of  nearly  every  other 
berg,  and  so  of  all  together,  differing  merely  in  the  mat- 
ter of  time — as  to  when  the  changes  take  place.  The  de- 
scription upon  which  I  will  venture,  and  which  might  be 
gleaned  from  the  foregoing  pages,  is,  therefore,  strictly 
true,  except  that  the  phases  and  accidents  are  supposed 
to  occur  in  rapid  succession.  In  a  word,  what  you  would 
behold  in  all  of  these  fifty,  within  twenty-four  hours,  you 
are  to  fancy  of  one,  in  the  course  of  an  afternoon. 

I  have  before  me,  in  my  mind's  eye,  the  Windsor 
Castle  berg,  fresh  from  the  north,  and  the  Great  Castle 
berg,  of  Belle  Isle  water,  which  it  entered  early  last  May, 
and  as  large,  at  the  time  of  its  arrival,  as  both  of  them 
at  present  combined.  And  so  I  am  looking  at  a  verita- 
ble berg  of  Cape  St.  Louis,  small,  though,  in  comparison 
with  the  berg  of  Cape  St.  Francis,  "  a  vast  cathedral  of 
dazzling  white  ice,  with  a  front  of  250  feet  perpendicular 
from  the  sea,''  visited  by  the  Bishop  of  Newfoundland  in 
the  summer  of  1853. 

I  will  describe,  first,  the  figure  of  the  berg.  It  is  a 
combination  of  Alp,  castle,  mosque,  Parthenon  and  cathe- 
drah  It  has  peaks  and  slopes  ;  cliffs,  crags,  chasms  and 
caverns  ;  lakes,  streams  and  waterfalls.  It  has  towers, 
battlements   and  portals.     It  has  minarets,  domes   and 


THE    STORY    OF    AN    ICEBERG."  247 

steeples  ;  roofs  and  gables ;  balustrades  and  balconies  ; 
fronts,  sides  and  interiors  ;  doors,  windows  and  porches  ; 
steps  and  entrances  ;  columns,  pilasters,  capitals  and  en- 
tablatures ;  frieze,  architrave  and  cornice  ;  arches,  clois- 
ters, niches,  statuary  and  countless  decorations  ;  flutings, 
corrugations,  carvings,  panels  of  glassy  polish  and  in  the 
rough  ;  Greek,  Koman,  Gothic,  Saracenic,  Pagan,  Sav- 
age. It  is  crested  with  blades  and  needles  ;  heaped  here 
and  there  with  ruins,  blocks  and  bowlders,  splintered  and 
crumbled  masses.  This  precipice  has  a  fresh,  sharp  frac- 
ture ;  yonder  front,  with  its  expanse  of  surface  beautifully 
diversified  with  sculptured  imagery  and  other  ornament, 
has. the  polish  of  ivory — the  glassy  polish  of  mirrors — the 
enamel  of  sea-shells — the  fierce  brightness  of  burnished 
steel — the  face  of  rubbed  marble — of  smoothest  alabaster 
H  — of  pearl — porcelain — lily-white  flesh — lily-white  wax — 
the  flesh-finish  of  beauty  done  in  the  spotless  stone  of 

I  Italy.  This,  though,  is  but  the  iceberg  of  the  air  ;  the 
head  and  crown  only  of  the  iceberg  of  the  deep  sea. 
From  the  figure  of  the  berg,  I  will  come  to  describe 
an  important  feature  of  its  life  and  history  :  its  motion  ; 
not  its  movement  from  place  to  place,  but  upon  its  cen- 
tre— its  rotation  and  vibration.  Where  the  berg  is  not 
grounded — in  which  case  it  only  beats  and  sways  to  and 
fro,  vibrating  through  the  arc  of  a  circle  like  an  inverted 


I 


24o  THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG. 

pendulum — when  it  is  not  grounded,  it  must  be  supposed 
to  hang  suspended  at  the  surface — all  but  the  topmost 
part — just  under  the  surface  of  the  ocean,  very  much  as 
a  cloud,  a  great  white  thunder-head,  hangs  suspended  in 
the  upper  air.  Balanced  around  its  he^irt,  far  down  in 
the  deep,  and  in  its  cold  solidity  "  dry  as  summer  dust " 
— poised  upon  its  centre  with  perfect  exactness,  it  is 
evident  that  the  loss  of  a  single  ton  of  ice  shifts  that  cen- 
tre, shifts  it  an  ounce-notch  on  the  bar  of  the  mighty 
scale,  destroys  the  equilibrium,  and  subjects  the  whole  to 
the  necessity  of  some  small  movement  in  order  to  regain 
its  rest.  When,  instead  of  one  ton,  thousands  fall  off,  it 
sets  a  rolhng  the  whole  clifted  and  pinnacled  circumfer- 
ence. 

And  here  begins  that  exhibition  of  novel  forms  and 
shapes,  and  of  awful  force,  and  the  sublimity  of  stupen- 
dous masses  in  motion,  that  so  impresses,  awes,  startles, 
and  fascinates  the  beholder.  A  berg  in  repose,  wondrous 
as  it  is  to  him  that  dares  to  linger  in  its  presence,  differs 
from  itself  in  action,  as  a  hero  in  his  sleep  differs  from 
himself  upon  the  field  of  battle. 

With  regard  to  the  motions  of  the  berg,  it  must  be 
borne  in  mind,  that,  from  the  fact  of  its  centre  being  not 
on  a  level  with  the  surface  of  the  sea,  but  at  depths 
below,  they  are  quite  different  from  w^hat  might  at  first 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG. 


249 


be  imagined.  A  rough  globe,  revolving  upon  its  axis, 
Avitb  but  a  small  portion  of  its  bulk,  say  a  twelfth,  above 
the  water  ;  or,  better  still,  the  hub  and  spokes  merely 
of  a  common  wagon  wheel,  dowly  rolling  back  and  forth, 
will  serve  for  illustration.  The  uppermost  spoke,  in  its 
vibrations  to  the  right  and  left,  describes  a  line  of  some 
extent  along  the  surface,  not  unlike  an  upright  stick 
moving  to  and  fro,  and  gradually  rising  and  sinking  as 
it  moves.  In  this  movement  back  and  forth,  the  two 
adjacent  spokes  will  be  observed  to  emerge  and  disappear 
correspondingly.  In  this  way,  a  berg  of  large  diameter, 
instead  of  falling  over  upon  the  sea  like  a  wall  or  pre- 
cipice, appears  to  advance  bodily,  slowly  sinking  as  it 
comes,  with  a  slightly  increasing  inclination  toward  you. 
In  its  backward  roll,  this  is  reversed.  It  seems  to  be 
retreating,  slowly  rising  as  it  floats  away,  with  a  slightly 
increasing  inclination  from  you.  In  these  grand  vibra- 
tions, projecting  points  and  masses  of  opposite  sides 
correspondingly  emerge  and  disappear,  rising  apparently 
straight  up  out  of  the  sea  on  this  side,  going  down  as 
straight  on  the  other. 

From  the  figure  and  motion  of  the  berg,  I  come  to 
describe  the  motive  power,  rather  the  explosive  power, 
through  which  the  delicate  balance  is  destroyed,  and  mo- 
tion made  a  necessity  in  order  to  gain  again  equilibrium 
11* 


250  THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG. 

and  rest.  Whatever  may  be  the  latent  heat  of  ice,  is  a 
question  for  the  professed  naturaHst.  Two  things  are 
evident  to  the  unlearned  observer  :  an  iceberg  is  as  solid 
as  ivory,  or  marble  from  the  lowest  depths  of  a  quarry, 
and  cold  apparently  as  any  substance  on  the  earth  can 
be  made.  This  compact  and  perfectly  frozen  body,  im- 
mersed in  the  warm  seas  of  summer,  and  warmer  atmos- 
phere, finds  its  entire  outside,  and  especially  that  portion 
of  it  which  is  exposed  to  the  July  sun,  expanding  under 
the  influence  of  the  penetrating  heat.  The  scrutiny  of 
science  would,  no  doubt,  find  it  certain  that  this  heat,  in 
some  measure,  darts  in  from  all  sides  in  converging  rays 
to  the  very  heart.  The  expanding  power  of  heat  be- 
comes at  length  an  explosive  force,  and  throws  ofi",  with 
all  the  violence  and  suddenness  of  gunpowder,  in  suc- 
cessive flakes,  portions  of  the  surface.  The  berg,  then, 
bursts  from  expansion,  as  when  porcelain  cracks  with 
sharp  report,  suddenly  and  unequally  heated  on  the 
winter  stove.  Judge  of  the  report  when  the  porcelain 
of  a  great  cliff  cracks  and  falls,  or  when  the  entire  berg 
is  blasted  asunder  by  the  subtle,  internal  fire  of  the 
summer  sun  !  If  you  would  hear  thunders,  or  whole 
broadsides  and  batteries  of  the  heaviest  ordnance,  come 
to  the  iceberg  then. 

Speaking  incidentally  of  noises,  reminds  me  of  the 


THE    STOKY    OF    AN   ICEBERG. 


hues  and  tints  of  tlie  iceberg.  Solomon  in  all  his  glory 
was  not  clothed  like  the  flowers  of  the  field.  Would  you 
behold  this  berg  apparelled  with  a  glory  that  eclipses 
all  floral  beauty,  and  makes  you  think,  not  only  of  the 
clouds  of  heaven  at  sunrise  and  sunset,  but  of  heaven 
itself,  you  must  come  to  it  at  sunrise  and  at  sunset. 
Then,  too,  you  would  hear  its  voices  and  its  melodies, 
the  deep  and  mournful  murmuring  of  the  surf  in  its 
caverns.  Hark  !  In  fancy  I  hear  them  now,  half  thun- 
der, and  half  the  music  of  some  mighty  organ. 

And  this  reminds  me  of  the  sea,  which  shares  with 
the  iceberg  something  of  the  glory  and  the  power.  In 
the  first  place,  from  the  white  brightness  of  the  ice,  the 
eye  is  tuned  to  such  a  high  key,  or  so  stimulated  and  be- 
dazzled, that  the  ocean  is  not  only  dark  by  contrast,  but 
dark  in  reality.  It  is  purple,  so  deep  as  to  amount  al- 
most to  blackness — an  evening  violet  I  would  call  it,  a 
complexion  magnificent  and  rich  exceedingly  in  the  blaze 
of  noon,  and  at  late  and  early  hours  when  the  skies  are 
full  of  brilliant  colors.  What  heightens  the  efiect  of 
this  dye  of  the  ocean,  is  the  pale  emerald  water  around 
the  berg,  and  in  which  it  floats  as  in  a  vast  bath,  the 
loveliness,  clarity  and  divine  beauty  of  which  no  language 
can  paint  in  a  way  to  kindle  the  proper  feeling  and 
emotion.     From  ten  to  fifty  feet  in  breadth,  it  encircles 


252  THE    STORY    OF    AN    ICEBERG. 

the  berg,  a  zone  or  girdle  of  sky-green,  that  most  deli- 
cate tint  of  the  sunset  heavens,  and  lies,  or  plays  with  a 
kind  of  serpent  play,  between  the  greenish  white  ice  and 
the  violet  water,  as  the  bright  deeps  of  air  lie  beyond  the 
edge  of  a  blue-black  cloud.  There  is  no  perceptible 
blending,  but  a  sharp  line  which  follows,  between  the 
bright  and  the  dark,  the  windings  of  the  berg,  across 
which  you  may,  if  you  have  the  temerity,  row  the  bow 
of  your  whale-boat,  and  gaze  down,  down  the  fearfully 
transparent  abyss,  until  the  dim  ice-cliffs  and  the  black 
deeps  are  lost  in  each  other's  awful  embrace. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  figure,  motion,  and  the  breaking 
of  the  iceberg,  incidentally  mentioning  its  sounds,  its 
colors,  and  the  surrounding  waters.  You  are  now  ready 
to  go  with  us,  and  spend  the  afternoon  about  it.  Early 
in  the  morning,  and  for  the  last  hour,  all  but  its  heights 
and  peaks  has  been  wrapped  in  cloud-like  fog.  That, 
you  discover,  is  thinning  off,  and  will  presently  all  pass 
away.  The  breeze  is  fresh  from  the  north,  and  we  will 
sail  down  upon  the  north-eastern  side,  until  we  have  it 
between  us  and  the  3  o'clock  sun.  We  are  upon  sound- 
ings, and,  as  we  glide  from  the  broad  sunny  tract  into  the 
shadow  of  the  berg,  the  ocean  should  be  green,  a  deep 
green.  But  we  have  been  sailing  with  the  white  ice  in 
our  eyes,  and  you  see  the  ocean  a  dark  purple.     The 


I 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG.  253 

captain  drops  sail,  and  sets  the  men  at  their  oars.  As 
the  current  sets  back  from  the  berg — the  reverse  of  the 
current  below — you  notice  that  they  are  pulling  slowly^ 
but  steadily  forward  without  any  perceptible  advance. 
We  are  distant  a  good  hundred  yards,  as  near  again  as 
we  ought  to  be  for  safety.  But  this  is  the  position  for 
the  painter,  and  it  will  be  the  care  of  the  captam  to  keep 
it,  the  required  time,  as  nearly  as  possible. 

As  the  broad  roller  lifts  us  lightly  and  gracefully,  and 
leaves  us  sinking  on  its  after-slope,  how  majestic  is  the 
silent  march  of  it,  the  noiseless  flight  of  it !  But  look  ! 
— look  ! — as  it  flees  in  all  its  imposing  breadth  of  dark- 
ness, see  the  great,  green  star  upon  its  breast — a  spangle 
green  as  grass,  as  the  young  spring  grass  in  the  sunsliine, 
gleaming  like  some  skylight  of  the  deep,  some  emerald 
window  in  the  dome  of  the  sea-palace,  letting  up  the 
splendor.  What  do  you  suppose  that  is?  It  is  ice,  a 
point  of  the  berg  pricking  up  into  the  illuminated  sur- 
ilice  and  reflecting  the  light.  You  will  understand  that 
better,  perhaps,  by  and  by.  But  wait  an  instant. 
Now  ! — now  ! — Beauty  strikes  the  billow  with  her 
magic  rod,  and,  presto — change  ! — all  is  glittering 
green.  A  thousand  feet  of  purple,  cloud-like  wave 
passes,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  into  the  brightness 
of  an  emerald  gem,  and  thus  rolls  up   and  smites  the 


254  THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG. 

iceberg.  And  thus,  like  night  perpetually  bursting  into 
the  splendid  noon,  roll  up  the  billows,  and  strike  the 
minutes  of  the  hour.  How  beautiful  is  the  transfigura- 
tion !  See  them  split  upon  this  angle  of  the  castle  ; 
and  as  they  run  along  the  walls,  with  the  whispery, 
hissing  sound  of  smoothly  sliding  waters,  mark  how  high 
they  wash,  and  sweep  them  with  their  snowy  banners, 
here  and  there  bending  over,  and  curling  into  long  scrolls 
of  molten  glass,  which  burst  in  dazzling  foam,  and 
plunge  in  many  an  avalanche  of  sparkling  jewelry. 
Into  the  great  porch  of  yonder  Parthenon  they  rush 
in  crowds,  and  thunder  their  applause  upon  the  steps. 

Is  not  all  this  very  grand  and  beautiful  ?  Have 
you  ever  seen  the  like  before  ?  The  like  of  it  is  not  to 
be  seen  upon  the  planet,  apart  from  the  icebergs.  With 
cold,  fixed,  white  death,  life — warm,  elastic,  palpitating, 
glorious,  powerful  life — is  wrestling,  and  will  inevitably 
throw.  Do  you  see  "  the  witchery  of  the  shadows "  ? 
Pray  look  aloft.  Castle,  temple,  cliff,  all  built  into  one, 
are  draped  with  shadows  softer  than  the  tint  of  doves, 
the  morning's  early  gray,  dappled  with  the  warm  pearly 
blues  of  heaven,  and  edged  with  fire.  The  sun  is  behind 
the  ice,  and  the  light  is  pouring  over.  A  flood  of  light 
is  pouring  over.  All  is  edged  with  fire,  streaming  with 
lightning  ;    all  its  notched  and  flowing  edges  hemmed 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG.  255 

with  live,  scintillating  sunshine,  ruby,  golden,  green,  and 
blue.  See  you  below  that  royal  sepulchre  through  its 
crystal  door  ?  Beauty  hangs  her  lamp  in  there,  and  the 
sky-blue  shadow  looks  like  the  fragrant  smoke  of  it.  Now 
tell  me,  was  there  ever  any  thing  more  lovely  .?  Have 
the  poets  dreamed  of  rarer  loveliness  ?  The  surf  springs 
up  like  an  angel  from  the  tomb,  and,  with  a  shout 
of  triumph,  strikes  it  with  its  silvery  wings.  Ha  ! 
you  start.  But  do  not  be  frightened.  It  was  only 
the  cracking  of  the  iceberg.  But  was  there  ever 
such  a  blow  .? — quick — tremulous — ringing — penetrat- 
ing. Why,  it  jarred  the  sea,  and  thrilled  the  heart  like 
an  electric  shock.  One  feels  as  if  the  berg  had  dropped, 
instantly  dropped  an  inch,  and  cracked  to  the  very  core. 
Captain  Knight,  shall  we  not  fall  back  a  little  .?  we  are 
surely  getting  too  close  under. 
K  While  I  have  been  talking,  the  painter,  who  sits 
midship,  with  his  thin,  broad  box  upon  his  knees, 
making  his  easel  of  the  open  lid,  has  been  dashing 
in  the  colors.  The  picture  is  finished,  and  so,  at  the 
word,  the  men  pull  heavily  at  their  oars,  and  we  come 
round  upon  the  south-eastern,  or  the  cathedral  front,  as  I 
will  call  it,  from  the  fact  that  the  general .  appearance  is 
architectural,  and  the  prevailing  style,  the  Gothic.  A 
dome  and  minaret,  curiously  thrown  in  upon  one  wing 


25G  THE  STOKY  OF  AN  ICEBERG. 

of  the  berg,  and  some  elaborately  cut  arches  opening 
through  the  water-line  into  the  cloister-like  cavern, 
would  suggest  the  Saracenic.  But  the  pointed  and 
the  perpendicular  prevail,  springing  up  full  of  life  and 
energy,  vivid  and  flame-like  in  their  forms. 

As  the  berg  faces,  we  are  getting  the  last  glances  of 
the  4  o'clock  sun,  and  have  broad  sheets  of  both  light 
and  shadow.  You  see  how  spirited  the  whole  thing  is. 
It  is  full  of  brilliant,  strong  effects.  While  the  hollows 
and  depressions  harbor  the  soft,  slaty  shadows,  points  and 
prominences  fairly  blaze  and  sparkle  with  sunshine.  The 
current  now,  you  discover,  sweeps  us  past  the  ice,  and 
compels  us  to  turn  about  and  row  up  the  stream.  Here 
is  the  point  where  all  is  strong  and  picturesque,  and  here 
they  hold  on  for  the  paiater.  Let  us  sit  upon  the  little 
bow-deck,  and  look,  and  listen  to  the  noises  of  the  waves 
at  play  in  the  long,  concealed,  under-sea  piazza.  How 
they  slap  the  hollow  arches  !  Hisses,  long-drawn  sighs, 
booming  thunder-sounds,  mingle  with  low  muttering, 
plunging,  rattling,  and  popping — a  bedlam  of  all  the 
lunatic  voices  of  the  ocean.  We  appear  to  be  at  the 
edge  of  a  shower,  such  a  sprinkling  and  spattering  of 
drops.  All  abroad,  and  all  aloft,  from  every  edge  and 
gutter  the  iceberg  spouts,  and  rains,  and  drips.  Over 
the   entire  face  of  the  ice  is  flowing  swiftly  down  one 


I 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG.  257 

noiseless  river  thin  as  glass,  looking,  for  all  the  world, 
like  the  perpetual  falling  of  a  transparent  veil  over  the 
richest  satin.  Here  and  there,  the  delicate  stream  cuts 
into  the  silvery  enamel,  and  engraves,  in  high  relief, 
brilliant  shields  of  jewelry,  diamonds,  rubies,  amethysts, 
emeralds  and  sapphires.  But  yonder  is  a  rare  touch  of 
the  enchanter.  Pray,  look  at  it  carefully.  It  is  a 
glistening  blue  line  of  ice,  threading  the  whiteness 
from  top  to  bottom,  a  good  two  hundred  feet.  It  looks 
as  if  the  berg  were  struck,  not  with  lightning,  but  with 
sapphire.  It  is  simply  transparent  ice,  and  may  be  com- 
pared to  a  fissure  filled  with  pellucid  spring-water,  with 
depths  of  darkness  beyond  the  visible,  illuminated  edge. 
Darkness  below  the  pure  light  flowing  in,  and  reflecting 
from  the  inner  sides  of  the  white  ice,  gives  us  the  blue. 
You  understand  the  process  by  which  so  beautiful  a  re- 
sult is  effected  ?  Well,  the  glacier  of  which  this  berg  is 
a  kind  of  spark,  is  mainly  compacted  snows,  compressed 
to  metallic  hardness  in  the  omnipotent  grasp  of  nature. 
As  it  slides  on  the  long,  inland  valley  slope,  it  bends 
and  cracks.  The  surface-water  fills  the  crevice,  and  is 
frozen.  Thus  the  glacier  is  mended,  but  marked  forever 
with  the  splendid  scar  which  you  see  before  you.  You 
fancy  it  has  the  hardness  of  a  gem  ;  it  is  softer  than  the 
flinty  masses  between  which  it  seems  to  have  been  run 


258  THE    STORY    OF    AN    ICEBERG. 

like  a  casting.  On  the  opposite  slope  of  the  berg,  you 
will  find  it  the  channel  of  a  torrent,  melting  and  wearing 
faster  than  the  primitive  ice. 

How  terribly  startling  is  tliis  explosion  !  It  re- 
sounded like  a  field-piece.  And  yet  you  perceive  only  a 
small  bank  of  ice  floating  out  from  below  where  it  burst 
off.  Small  as  it  is,  the  whole  berg  has  felt  it,  and  is 
slightly  rolling  on  its  deep  down  centre.  You  perceive 
that  it  is  a  perfectly  adjusted  pair  of  scales,  and  weighs 
itself  anew  at  the  loss  of  every  pound.  At  the  loss  of 
every  hunce,  the  central  point,  around  which  millions  of 
tons  are  balanced,  darts  aside  a  very  little,  and  calls 
upon  the  entire  bulk  to  make  ready  and  balance  all 
afresh.  You  see  the  process  going  on.  There,  the  water- 
line  is  slowly  rising  ;  and  you  peep  into  the  long,  green- 
ish-white hollow,  polished  and  "vvinding  as  the  interior  of 
a  sea-shell.  Now  it  pauses,  and  returns.  So  will  it  rise 
and  sink  alternately  until  it  stands  like  a  headland  of 
everlasting  marble. 

Again  the  painter  wipes  his  brushes,  puts  away  his 
second  picture,  and  tacks  a  fresh  pasteboard  within  the 
cover  of  his  box,  and  gives  the  word  to  pull  for  the  south- 
western side.  How  finely  nature  sculptures  her  decora- 
tions !  "Would  not  Palmer,  Powers,  and  others  of  that 
company,  whose  poetic  language  is  in  spotless  stone,  love 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG.       "     259 

^to  be  with  us  ?  Mark  the  high  rehefs,  and  the  deep,  fine 
fluting  of  this  angle,  as  we  pass  from  the  Temple  front 
to  the  clifted.  Here  you  see  less  to  please,  and  more  to 
terrify.  A  word  or  so  describes  it :  It  is  a  precipice  of 
sparkHng,  white  ice,  freshly  broken.  The  edge  of  newly 
broken  china  is  nearest  like  it,  with  the  suspicion  of 
green  for  forty  feet  or  more  up,  the  reflection  of  that 
lovely  pale  green  water.  Now  the  currents  recoil  and 
roll  in  upon  the  huge  wall  in  whirling  eddies,  requiring 
steady  toil  at  the  oars,  to  keep  off  a  plump  two  hundred 
yards,  the  proper  distance  for  sketching  so  large  a  per- 
pendicular mass. 

If  we  except  the  quality  and  texture  of  the  fracture, 
there  is  little  to  paint  in  all  this  blaze  of  sunlight.  The 
outline  of  the  berg,  though,  is  worth  remembering.  It 
cuts  the  blue  vault  like  the  edge  of  a  bright  sword,  and 
pricks  it  with  flashing  spears.  The  eye  darts  from  point 
to  point  along  its  lengthy,  zig-zag  and  flowing  thread,  and 
sweeps  from  the  sea  upward  and  over  to  the  sea  again. 
How  persistently  the  treacherous  current  labors  to  bear 
'  us  in  upon  the  clift' !  Let  alone  the  oars  five  minutes, 
and  we  should  be  among  the  great  rain-drops  slipping 
from  the  overhanging  crags. 

I  Horrible !  The  berg  is  burst.  The  whole  upper 
front  is  coming.     There  it  is — gone  in  the  sea.     Keep 


b 


260  THE    STORY    OF    AN    ICEBERG. 

still  ! — Keep  still ! — Don't  be  frightened  !  The  captain 
will  manage  it.  Here  come  the  big  swells.  Hurra ! 
Look  out  for  the  next !  Here  we  go — splendid  !  Now 
for  the  third  and  last.  How  she  combs  as  she  comes. 
Hurra  ! — Hurra  !  Here  we  are — all  safe — inside  of  them. 
See  them  go  ! — racing  over  the  ocean,  circles  of  plumed 
cavalry.  Now  for  the  berg.  He'll  make  a  magnificent 
roll  of  it,  if  he  don't  go  to  pieces.  Should  he,  then  put 
us  half  a  mile  away.  See  it  rise  ! — The  water-line — 
rising — rising — up — up.  It  looks  like  a  carriage-way. 
Hark  ! — Crack — crack — crack.  Quick  ! — quick  !  Look 
at  the  black  water  here  ! — all  spots  and  spangles  of 
green.  Something  is  coming  !  There  it  comes  !  The 
very  witchcraft  of  the  deep — Neptune's  half-acre,  bowers, 
thrones,  giants,  eagles,  elephants,  vases  spilling,  fountains 
pouring,  torrents  tumbling,  glassy  banks.  Look  at  the 
peaks  slanting  off  into  the  blue  air,  and  the  great  slant 
precipice.  Hah  !  Don^t  you  see  ?  It  is  coming  again — 
slowly  coming  !  Crack — crack — crack.  Down  sinks  the 
garden — on  roll  the  swells — down  go  bowers,  thrones,  stat- 
uary— lost  amid  the  tumult  and  thunder  of  the  surf.  Over 
bends  the  precipice — this  way  over — frightfully  over — in 
roll  the  waves — roaring,  thundering  in — dashing,  lashing- 
crag  and  chasm.  Wonderful  to  see  !  Waterfalls  bursting 
into  light  above — plunging  in  snowy  columns  to  the  sea. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG.  261 

How  terrible — terrible  all  this  is  !  But  0,  how  beau- 
tiful !  Who,  that  does  not  witness  it,  knows  any  thing 
of  the  bursting  of  an  iceberg  ?  It  comes  with  the  crash 
of  a  thunderbolt.  But  how  can  one  tell  the  horrible, 
shocking  noise  ?  A  pine  split  by  lightning  has  the  point, 
but  not  the  awful  breadth  and  fulness  of  the  sound. 
Air,  ocean,  and  the  berg,  all  fairly  spring  at  the  power  of 
it.  And  then  the  ice-fall,  with  its  ringing,  rumbling, 
crashing  roar,  and  the  heavy,  explosion-like  voice  of  the 
final  plunge,  followed  by  the  wild,  frantic  dashing  of  the 
waters.  You  see  the  whole  upper  face  of  the  ice,  yards 
deep,  and  scores  of  them  in  width,  all  gone.  All  was 
blasted  off- instantly,  and  dropped  at  once,  a  stupendous 
cataract  of  brilliant  ruins. 

Here  we  are,  at  last,  where  the  painter  will  revel — 
between  the  glories  of  sunset  and  the  iceberg.  What 
shall  we  call  all  this  magnificence,  clustered  in  a  square 
quarter  of  a  mile  ?  The  Bernese  Alps  in  miniature.  A 
dark  violet  sea,  and  Alps  in  burnished  silver,  with  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow  dissolving  among  them.  Lofty 
ridges,  of  the  shape  of  flames,  have  the  tint  of  flame  ; 
out  of  the  purity  of  lilies  bloom  the  pink  and  rose  ;  sky- 
blue  shadows  sleep  in  the  defiles  ;  I  will  not  say  cloth  of 
gold  drapes,  but  water  of  gold  washes — water  of  green, 
of  orange,  scarlet,  crimson,  purple,  wash  the  crags  and 


I 
I 

I 


262  THE    STORY    OF    AN    ICEBERG. 

steeps  ;  strange  metallic  tints  gleam  in  the  shaggy 
caverns — copper,  bronze,  and  gold.  Endless  grace  of  form 
and  outline  ! — endless,  endless  beauty  !  Its  shining  image 
is  in  the  deep,  hanging  there  as  in  a  molten  looking-glass. 
Look  down  and  see  it.  Now  the  last  rays  of  day  strike 
the  berg.  How  the  hues  and  tints  change  and  flit,  flush 
and  fade  !  A  very  mirror  for  the  fleeting  glories  of  the 
sunset,  or  the  fitful  complexions  of  the  northern  light. 
Prodigal  Nature  !  Is  she  ever  wasting  splendors  at  this 
rate  ?  "Watch  them  on  this  broad,  slanting  park  of 
lily-white  satin.  White  ! — It  has  just  a  breath  of  pink. 
Pink  .?— It  is  the  richest  rose — rose  deepening  into  pur- 
ple— purple  trembling  into  blue,  pearly  blue,  skirted 
with  salmon-tints  and  lilac.  Where  are  the  train-bearers 
of  this  imperial  robe  ?  There  they  are,  the  smooth, 
black  swells,  one,  two,  three,  rolling  up,  and  changing 
into  green  as  they  roll  up — far  up,  and  break  in  spark- 
ling diamonds  on  the  bosom  of  the  lustrous  alabaster. 

Do  you  hear  the  music  ?  0  what  power  in  sound  ! 
Clothed  in  green  and  silver,  the  royal  bands  of  the  great 
deep  are  playing  at  every  portal  of  the  iceberg.  Hark  ! 
Half  thunder,  and  half  the  harmony  of  grand  organs. 

"  "Waters,  in  the  still  magnificence, 
Their  solemn  cymbals  beat." 

The  painter's  work  is  over.     And  now  for  harbor — all 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ICEBERG. 


263 


sails  spread — a  downy  pressure  on  them,  and  the  twilight 
ocean.  Indomitable  pencil  !  If  the  man  is  not  at  it 
again  ! — A  last,  flying  sketch  in  lead.  Let  us  take  one 
more  look  at  the  berg — a  farewell  look.  It  is  a  beautiful 
creation — superlatively  beautiful.  It  is  more— sublime 
and  beautiful — fold  upon  fold — spotless  ermine — caught 
up  from  the  billows,  and  suspended  by  the  fingers  of 
Omnipotence. 

The  Merciful  One  !  It  is  falling  ! — Cliffs  and  pinna- 
cles bursting — crashing — tumbling  with  redoubling  thun- 
ders.— Pillars  and  sheaves  of  foam  leap  aloft. — Wave 
chases  wave,  careering  wild  and  high. — Columns  and 
splintered  fragments  spring  from  the  deep  convulsively, 
toppling  and  plunging. — A  multitude  of  small  icebergs 
spot  the  dusky  waters.  One  slender  obelisk,  slowly  rock- 
ing to  and  fro,  stands  a  monument  among  the  scattered 
ruins. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

DEIFTING     IN     THE    STRAITS.— EETEEAT    TO     TEMPLE     BAT.— PICTU- 
EESQUE    SCENEEY.— YOTAGEES'    SATUEDAY    NIGHT. 

We  are  drifting  to  the  north  shore  in  spite  of  all  that 
can  be  done,  and  positively  have  not  been  before  in  so 
great  danger.  Our  anchor,  with  all  the  cable  we  have, 
would  be  swinging  above  the  bottom,  were  we  close  to 
the  rocks.  A  reckless  skipper,  not  long  ago  in  a  similar 
predicament,  let  go  his  anchor  with  the  expectation  that 
it  would  catch  in  time  to  save  him,  but  he  went  bows  on, 
and  lost  his  vessel  Our  hope  is  that  some  one  of  the 
flaws  of  wind,  now  ruffling  the  water  every  little  while 
in  various  directions,  will  catch  our  sails,  and  allow  us  to 
escape  into  Temple  Bay,  a  land-locked  harbor  close  by. 
My  anxiety  to  return  home  makes  this  delay  a  little 
vexatious,  and  galls  my  thin-skinned  patience.  We  had 
every  reason  to  hope,  this  morning,  that  we  should  be 


PICTURESQUE    SCENERY. 


265 


I 


through  these  perilous  narrows  and  upon  the  broad  gulf 
by  midnight. 

The  breeze  touches  us  at  the  last  moment,  and  we 
are  gliding  through  the  narrow  pass  between  high  craggy 
banks,  over  a  comparatively  shallow  bottom,  visible  from 
the  deck,  into  what  appears  to  be  a  lake  surrounded  by 
mountains  not  unlike  those  about  West  Point,  barring 
their  fine  woods.  Keally  Labrador  can  show  us,  at  last, 
a  little  forest  greenery.  Without  a  point  of  grandeur, 
this  is  the  most  picturesque  scenery  we  have  found  on 
the  coast.  The  greenish  waters,  tinted  by  the  verdure 
reflected  from  their  surface,  expand  to  the  breadth  of  a 
mile  by  six  or  seven  in  length,  with  a  depth  of  fifty 
fathoms  or  more.  We  glide  past  the  village — a  knot  of 
fish-houses,  flakes  and  dwellings,  in  the  bight  to  the 
left  or  south,  and  drop  anchor  within  pistol-shot  of  the 
spruces  and  a  mountain  brook.  Here  we  are,  till  next 
week,  like  a  lonely  fly  on  this  mirror  of  the  mountains, 
and  must  make  the  most  of  our  shadows  and  reflections, 
sunshine  and  solitude,  and  see  what  they  will  bring  us. 

I  sit  upon  deck  and  look  about  upon  the  wild,  noise- 
less scene,  and  say  :  What  a  lonely  Saturday  afternoon  ! 
The  weary  week  is  just  lying  down  to  ruminate  in  these 
solemn  shades.     A  few  scattering  sounds,  the  finishing 

strokes  of  the  axe  and  hammer,  and  the  low  wail  of  the 
12 


266  voyagers'  Saturday  night. 

surf  beyond  the  coast-ridge  break  the  rest  of  the  cool, 
bracing  air.  The  upper  end  of  the  lake,  as  I  call  the 
bay  or  fiord,  is  hidden  behind  a  headland,  reminding  me 
of  our  Hudson  Butter  Hill.  Nothing  would  be  pleasanter 
than  a  small  voyage  of  discovery  by  twilight.  Below  the 
stern  of  the  schooner,  which  swings  near  the  beach,  are  the 
timbers  of  a  ship  peeping  above  water,  and  full  of  story, 
no  doubt,  as  so  many  old  salts.  "We  have  had  a  most 
agreeable  tea-time,  the  Captain  entertaining  us  with  in- 
cidents of  his  life  upon  these  northern  seas.  My  regret, 
not  to  say  vexation,  that  we  had  to  leave  the  strait  and 
retreat  to  the  safety  of  this  lovely  fold,  provided  by  the 
Good  Shepherd  of  the  deep,  is  quite  dissipated  after  a 
little  sketch  of  the  perils  to  which  v/e  should  have  been 
subjected  among  the  currents,  becalmed  and  immersed  in 
fog,  banks  of  which  I  see  already  peeping  over  the  hills 
along  the  shore.  Sunset  and  twilight  and  the  dusk  of 
evening  have  come  and  gone.  The  stars  are  out  in  mul- 
titudes, Arcturus  among  them  high  in  the  great  arch, 
and  the  depths,  above  which  we  seem  to  hang  suspended, 
are  thickly  sown  with  their  trembling  images. 


I 


CHAPTER  L. 

SOTTDAY  IN  TEMPLE  BAT.— EELIGIOUS  SERVICES.— THE  FISHEEMAN'S 
DINNEE  AND  CONVEESATION.— CHATEAU.— THE  WEECK.— WINTEE9 
IN  LABEADOE.— ICEBEKGS  IN  THE  WINTER— THE  FEENCH  OFFI- 
CEES'  FEOLIC  WITH  AN  ICEBEEG.— THEOEY  OP  ICEBEEGS.— CUE- 
EENTS  OF  THE  STEAIT.— THE  EED  INDIANS.— THE  EETUEN  TO 
THE  VESSEL. 

Monday,  July  19.  Early  yesterday  morning,  a  boat 
with  tan-colored  sails  came  off  from  the  town,  and  found 
that  we  were  not  traders  from  Newfoundland,  as  they 
supposed,  but  visitors  merely,  and  direct  from  Mr. 
Hutchinson,  their  minister,  of  whose  return  they  were 
delighted  to  hear  tidings.  It  was  soon  settled  that  I 
should  be  their  clergyman  for  the  day,  notice  of  which 
was  given  very  quickly  upon  their  going  back  to  the 
village,  by  sending  from  house  to  house,  and  flying  the 
Sunday  flag,  a  white  banner  with  a  red  cross.  Our  men, 
in  holiday  clothes,  were  prompt  at  their  oars,  and  soon 
placed   us   on   the   beach,  where  we  were  met   by  Mr. 


268     THE  fisherman's  dinner  and  conversation. 

Clark,  one  of  the  city  fathers,  who  politely  invited  us  to 
his  house,  and  afterward  attended  us  to  the  place  of 
worship,  a  small  rude  building,  which  was  crowded,  the 
children  gathering  close  about  me.  After  the  usual 
Church  of  England  service,  I  preached  extempore  on  our 
need  of  redemption,  and  the  sufficiency  and  freeness  of 
that  which  has  been  graciously  provided.  After  a  brief 
intermission,  all  returned  to  the  evening  service  and 
sermon,  which  concluded  the  religious  exercises  of  the 
day.  We  dined  at  Mr.  Clark's,  on  fisherman's  fare,  gar- 
nished with  salted  duck,  a  new  dish  to  us,  and  requiring 
the  discipline  of  use  and  a  rough  life  in  order  to  relish 
very  well. 

While  at  dinner  and  after,  our  host  entertained  us  in 
a  simple,  sketchy  way  with  incidents  and  adventures  illus- 
trating the  story  of  the  place,  and  of  his  own  life.  Cha- 
teau, the  name  of  the  village,  is  more  ancient  than  the  old 
French  and  English  war,  during  which  it  suffered  pillage 
and  burning.  The  wreck  beneath  our  stern,  of  which  I 
spoke,  was  that  of  an  English  vessel  with  a  cargo  of  furs, 
fish  and  oil,  and  was  there  run  aground  and  fired  by  the 
captain,  to  prevent  her  falling  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  Even  these  remote  rocks  and  waters  have  his- 
toric associations  of  thrilling  interest. 

According  to  the  custom  of  those  who  live  perma- 


WINTERS    IN    LABRADOR. 


269 


nently  in  Labrador,  Clark  and  a  few  of  his  neighbors 
remove,  in  autumn,  to  the  evergreen  woods  along  the 
streams  at  the  head  of  the  bay,  and  spend  more  than 
half  of  the  year  in  hunting  and  sealing,  and  getting  tim- 
ber and  firewood  for  the  summer.  In  some  respects,  it  is 
a  holiday  time,  and  compensates  for  the  unremitting  toil 
of  the  fishing  season. 

The  experience  of  years  with  icebergs  has  not  made 
them  common  things,  like  the  waves  and  hills,  but  rather 
increased  the  sense  of  their  terrible  power  and  grandeur. 
They  frequently  arrive  covered  with  earth  and  stones,  an 
indication  of  their  recent  lapse  from  the  land,  and  of  the 
brevity  of  their  time  upon  the  sea.  During  the  cold 
months  they  are  deeply  covered  with  snow,  and  have  a 
rounded,  heavy,  and  drowsy  aspect.  It  is  the  warm 
weather  that  gives  them  their  naked  brilliancy,  and 
melts  them  into  picturesque  forms,  and  rolls  and  ex- 
plodes them  in  the  magnificent  style,  I  have  attempted  to 
describe.  They  are  seen  to  move  occasionally  at  the 
same  rate  of  speed,  whether  through  the  densely  packed 
ice  or  the  open  sea.  Wind,  current  and  tide,  and  the 
ocean  crowded  with  ice  as  far  as  sight  can  reach,  all  fre- 
quently set  in  one  direction,  and  the  bergs  in  another. 
On  they  move,  majestic  and  serene,  tossing  the  crystal 
masses    from    their   shaggy  breasts,  cracking,    crashing. 


270      FKENCH    OFFICEKS'   FROLIC    WITH    AN    ICEBERG. 

thundering  along.  There  are  spaces  of  dark  water  spot- 
ting the  white  expanse.  It  makes  no  difference  ;  all  move 
on  alike.  None  hastens  in  the  open  water  ;  none  pauses 
at  the  heaped-up  banks.  All  on  the  surface  of  the  deep 
is  only  so  much  froth  before  the  Alp  whose  foundations 
are  immersed  in  the  great  submarine  currents. 

He  told  us  a  story  illustrating  the  danger  of  icebergs, 
and  the  temerity  of  making  familiar  with  them.  A  few 
years  ago,  while  a  French  man-of-war  was  lying  at 
anchor  in  Temple  Bay,  the  younger  officers  resolved  on 
amusing  themselves  with  an  iceberg,  a  mile  or  more 
distant  in  the  straits.  They  made  sumptuous  prepara- 
tions for  a  pic-nic  upon  the  very  top  of  it,  the  myste- 
ries of  which  they  were  curious  to  see.  All  warnings 
of  the  brown  and  simple  fishermen,  in  the  ears  of  the 
smartly  dressed  gentlemen  who  had  seen  the  world,  were 
quite  idle.  It  was  a  bright  summer  morning,  and  the 
jolly  boat  with  a  showy  flag  went  off  to  the  berg.  By 
twelve  o'clock  the  colors  were  flying  from  the  icy 
turrets,  and  the  wild  midshipmen  were  shouting  from  its 
walls.  For  two  hours  or  so  they  hacked,  and  clambered 
the  crystal  palace  ;  frolicked  and  feasted  ;  drank  wine  to 
the  king  and  the  ladies,  and  laughed  at  the  thought  of 
peril  where  all  was  so  fixed  and  solid.  As  if  in  amaze- 
ment at  such  rashness,  the  grim  Alp  of  the  sea  made 


THEORY    OF   ICEBERGS. 

neither  sound  nor  motion.  A  profound  stillness  watched 
on  his  shining  pinnacles,  and  hearkened  in  the  blue 
shadows  of  his  caves.  When,  like  thoughtless  children, 
they  had  played  themselves  weary,  the  old  alabaster  of 
Greenland  mercifully  suffered  them  to  gather  up  their 
toys,  and  go  down  to  their  cockle  of  a  boat,  and  flee  away. 
As  if  the  time  and  the  distance  were  measured,  he 
waited  until  they  could  see  it  and  live,  when,  as  if  his 
heart  had  been  volcanic  fire,  he  burst  with  awful  thun- 
ders, and  filled  the  surrounding  waters  with  his  ruins. 
A  more  astonished  little  party  seldom  comes  home  to  tell 
the  story  of  their  panic.  It  was  their  first,  and  their  last 
day  of  amusement  with  an  iceberg. 

It  seems  rather  late  in  the  day  for  persons  of  some 
experience  in  these  regions,  to  be  ignorant  of  the  origin 
of  icebergs,  I  asked  our  friend,  as  I  had  others,  how  he 
supposed  that  they  were  formed.  He  imagined  that  they 
were  merely  the  accumulations  of  loose  ice,  snow  and 
frozen  spray,  in  the  intensely  cold  regions  of  the  arctic 
ocean.  Piles  of  broken  ice,  driven  together,  and  cemented 
by  the  heavy  snows  and  the  repeated  dashing  of  the  surf, 
would  in  time  become  the  huge  and  solid  islands  that 
we  see.  Such  is  the  theory  of  their  formation  with  all 
whom  I  have  heard  express  themselves  on  the  subject, 
and  I  believe  the  one  very  generally  received.     When 


272  CURRENTS   OF    THE    STRAIT. 

this  explanation  was  objected  to,  and  the  facts  stated 
that  icebergs  were  glaciers,  first  formed  on  the  land,  and 
then  launched  into  the  sea,  our  kind  host  expressed  his 
doubts  more  modestly  than  some  others  had  done  of  less 
intelligence  and  experience. 

Speaking  of  the  currents  in  the  straits,  he  said  he 
could  not  well  conceive  any  in  the  world  more  dangerous. 
While  exceedingly  powerful,  they  were  shifting.  What 
rendered  this  perilous  to  the  last  degree,  was  the  exces- 
sively deep  water  and  the  boldness  of  the  shores.  One 
could  toss  a  bullet  into  water  frequently  too  deep  for  the 
anchorage  of  smaller  vessels.  In  times  of  calm,  and  in 
connection  with  the  dense  fogs  peculiar  to  those  coasts,  a 
vessel  could  not  drift  about  in  the  straits  without  the  risk 
of  being  thrown  upon  the  rocks  and  lost.  When  we  were 
lying  becalmed  off  Temple  Bay,  on  Saturday  afternoon, 
he  was  watching  us  from  a  hill-top,  and  remarked  to  a 
neighbor,  that  he  was  sorry  for  the  skipper  out  there,  and 
feared,  unless  the  wind  came  to  his  relief  before  dark,  he 
would  get  ashore. 

He  remarked  that  fresh  water  may  be  dipped  in 
winter,  from  small  open  spaces  in  the  bay — a  fact  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  read  of  in  the  pages  of  arctic  voyagers. 
I  concluded  that  this  only  is  true,  where  the  water  is 
undisturbed  below,  and  where  the  open  spaces  are  small, 


THE   RETUKN   TO   THE    VESSEL. 


273 


and  hemmed  in  with  ic3  in  a  way  to  break  off  the  wind. 
It  is  simply  rain-water,  I  suppose,  resting  upon  the  sur- 
face of  the  heavier  salt  water.  In  the  course  of  the  con- 
versation, he  stated  that  there  was,  at  some  distance  back 
in  the  interior,  a  remnant  of  the  red  Indians  so  called, 
once  a  savage  and  troublesome  tribe  in  Newfoundland. 
Driven  from  thence  on  account  of  their  hostile  and  un- 
tamable nature,  they  had  finally  taken  refuge  in  the  remote 
vales  of  Labrador,  where  they  now  live,  as  is  commonly 
reported,  nursing  their  ancient  enmity,  but  too  prudent 
to  reappear  among  the  whites,  or  let  their  exact  habita- 
tion be  known. 

Pleased  with  the  talk  of  the  fisherman  of  Chateau, 
we  bade  him  and  his  family  good-by,  and  returned  on 
board  to  a  second  dinner,  a  little  more  to  our  taste. 


12* 


CHAPTER    LI. 

EVENING  WALK  TO  TEMPLE  BAT  MOUNTAIN.— THE  LITTLE  ICEBEEG. 
— TBOUBLES  OF  THE  NIGHT  AND  PLEASUEES  OF  THE  MOENING.— 
UP  THE  STEAITS.— THE  PINNACLE  OF  THE  LAST  ICEBEEG.— THE 
GULF  OF  ST.  LAWEENCE. 

After  dinner  and  a  pleasant  conversation  on  deck, 
we  found  time  to  slip  ashore,  and  thread  onr  way  through 
thickets  of  sweet-scented  spruce  to  the  mountain-top  for 
a  prospect.  Once  in  my  life,  on  the  borders  of  a  forest 
pond,  in  ihe  lower  St.  Lawrence  country,  I  experienced 
the  plague  of  black  flies  to  an  extent  that  was  quite 
frightful.  I  turned  from  the  margin  where,  head  and 
face  covered  with  handkerchiefs,  I  was  fishing,  and  ran 
to  a  woodman's  hut.  The  same  flies  swarmed  about  us 
on  the  mountain  of  Temple  Bay,  and  drove  us  down 
through  its  evergreens  with  all  the  speed  it  was  prudent 
to  make. 

In  the  edge  of  the  twilight,  the  Captain  went  across 
the  bay  to  a  little  mouse  of  a  berg,  that  had  been  all  day 


THE    LITTLE   ICEBERG.  275 

creeping  in  from  sea,  to  get  a  few  cakes  of  ice  ;  and  asked 
our  company.  Our  mouse,  as  might  be  expected,  turned 
out  to  be  a  lion.  We  rowed  alongside,  notwithstanding, 
and  sprung  upon  bis  white,  glassy  back  melted  all  over 
into  a  roughness  that  resembled  the  rippled  surface  of  a 
pond.  In  attempting  to  walk  to  a  fairy-like  bowl,  full  of 
that  lovely  blue  water,  the  painter  slipped  up,  and 
came  near  sliding  off  altogether.  But  for  the  Captain, 
at  whose  legs  he  caught  as  he  was  going  by,  he  would 
have  had  a  fine  plunge  and  a  ducking.  Our  chick  of  a 
berg,  only  ten  or  twelve  feet  across  with  a  few  minute 
pieces  of  sculpture  in  the  shape  of  vases  and  recumbent 
animals,  lay  in  its  pale  green  bath  like  a  burr  or  star,  its 
white  points  visible  at  quite  a  depth — a  fact  which  served 
to  corroborate  some  experiments  we  had  been  making 
with  respect  to  the  parts  of  an  iceberg  under  water. 
Here  was  a  mass,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  trifling 
spurs,  only  a  little  above  the  surface,  but  with  a  bulk, 
the  extreme  points  of  which  were  too  far  below  to  be  dis- 
covered. To  conclude  several  amusing  liberties  we  were 
taking  with  it,  the  Captain  proceeded  to  split  off  a  kind 
of  figure-head  attached  to  the  main  body  by  a  sort  of 
horse-neck,  which  no  sooner  fell  into  the  water  than  our 
bantling  began  to  imitate  the  motions  of  the  tallest  giant 
of  the  icebergs.     In  making  the  grand  swing,  however,  it 


276  TROUBLES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

rolled  completely  over,  and  came  within  an  ace  of  catch- 
ing us  upon  one  of  its  horns.  Anticipating  the  chance  of 
danger  from  below,  I  looked  over  the  side  of  the  boat, 
when,  sure  enough,  a  prong  was  coming  up  in  a  way  to 
give  us  a  toss  that  would  be  no  sport.  A  lucky  push  off 
saved  us.  Like  the  spoke  of  a  big  wheel  it  rolled  up,  giv- 
ing us  a  blow  in  the  ribs  as  it  passed,  and  a  good  rocking 
on  the  swash.  One  would  scarcely  think  that  there  was 
any  excitement  in  so  trifling  an  incident,  but  there  was, 
and  enough  of  it  to  make  me  resolve  to  meddle  no  more 
with  a  thing  of  the  kind  larger  than  a  lamb.  "When  it 
settled  to  rest,  it  was  exactly  upside  down,  and  presented 
a  curious  specimen  of  the  honey-comb  work  of  the  waters. 
It  may  occur  to  some  that  we  were  sporting  upon  the 
Lord's  Day.  Upon  reflection  I  confess  that  we  were, 
although  we  might  plead  the  privilege  of  voyagers,  and 
the  long  day  which  touches  hard  upon  our  midnight. 

Upon  our  return  we  found  the  musquitoes,  a  pecu- 
liarly hungry  and  poisonous  species,  coming  down  from 
the  woods  in  numbers.  We  determined  to  crush  that 
mischief  in  the  bud,  and  did  it  most  effectually,  by  fill- 
ing the  cabin  with  the  dense  smoke  of  spruce  boughs,  and 
then,  upon  its  escape,  coveiing  the  entrance  with  a  sheet. 
One  only  came  feebly  and  timidly  singing  about  my  face 
before  I  got  to  sleep.     About  one  o'clock,  there  were 


PLEASURES  OF  THE  MORNING. 


sounds  above  :  shaking  of  blocks  and  cordage,  now  and 
tlien  a  thump  with  a  creak  of  booms,  and  jerking  of  the 
rudder.  I  went  up  ;  there  was  no  watch  ;  all  were  soundly 
sleeping.  The  ship's  cat  was  out  on  the  rail,  running 
from  place  to  place,  and  mewing  mournfully.  The  sky 
looked  ominous,  and  there  was  the  roar  of  wind  outside. 
The  waters  and  the  woods  of  the  bay,  so  prettily  named, 
were  gloomy  as  the  crypt  of  a  temple.  I  crept  to  my 
dreams,  out  of  which  in  no  long  time  I  was  startled  by 
the  painter.  He  was  getting  up  to  have  his  look.  He 
reported  breezes,  bu.t  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  without 
comment  felt  his  way  back  to  bed.  At  two,  the  voice  of 
the  Captain  put  an  end  to  slumbers,  fore  and  aft.  He 
was  calHng  all  hands  to  the  deck,  where  presently  all 
was  noise  and  bustle,  hoisting  sail,  and  heaving  at  the 
anchor.  The  old  motion  was  soon  perceptible,  and  we 
knew  that  we  were  taking  leave  of  Temple  Bay — a  fact 
of  which  we  were  assured  by  the  Captain,  who  peeped  in 
upon  us,  by  lifting  a  corner  of  the  musquito-sheet,  and 
announced  the  good  tidings  that  the  wind,  northeast,  was 
blowing  briskly,  and  that  the  straits  would  give  us  no 
further  trouble. 

No  sooner  were  we  clear  of  the  "  tickle,'*  or  narrows, 
than  "  Iceberg  ahead  !  " — "  Ice  on  the  lee  bow  !  "  was 
cried  by  the  man  forward.     It  was  no  more  to  our  j)ur- 


278  THE   GULF    OF    ST.    LAWRENCE. 

pose  to  go  up  and  look  at  ices.  It  was  a  comfortable 
reflection  that  we  were  now  bidding  them  farewell.  By- 
way of  a  parting  salute,  one  of  the  bergs  burst  asunder 
with  a  great  noise,  before  that  we  were  out  of  the  reach 
of  its  shells.  But  its  thunder  fell  but  faintly  on  our 
practised  ears,  and  rather  encouraged  than  disturbed  our 
disposition  to  sleep.  When  daylight  was  broad  upon  the 
straits,  we  were  over  the  worst,  and  the  last  iceberg,  like 
the  top  of  some  solitary  mausoleum  of  the  desert,  was 
sinking  below  the  horizon.  The  high  wind  and  sea  were 
after  us,  and  we  ran  with  speed  and  comparative  stillness. 
By  noon  we  were  fairly  through  ;  with  Forteau,  the  last 
of  Labrador,  on  the  north — to  the  south,  the  coast  of  New- 
foundland, and  the  broad  gulf  of  St.  Lawrence  expanding 
before  us.  We  felt  that  we  might  then  breathe  freely. 
The  breeze  most  surely  did,  and  we  sped  on  our  way 
southward  toward  Cape  Breton. 


CHAPTER   LII. 

COAST    SCENEET.— FAEEWELL    TO    LABEADOE. 

The  coast  of  Labrador  was  really  fine,  all  the  fore- 
noon, and  sometimes  strikingly  grand.  It  has  lost  some- 
thing of  the  desolate  and  savage  character  it  has  about 
the  Capes  St.  Louis  and  St.  Charles,  and  seems  more 
like  a  habitable  land.  There  are  long  and  graceful 
slopes  and  outlines  of  pale  green  hills  slanting  down  to 
the  sea,  along  which  is  the  craggy  shore-Hne,  black, 
brown  and  red.  The  last  few  miles,  and  which  is  near 
the  Canadian  border,  the  red  sandstone  shore  is  exceed- 
ingly picturesque.  It  has  a  right  royal  presence  along 
the  deep.  Lofty,  semicircular  promontories  descend  in 
regular  terraces  nearly  down,  then  sweep  out  gracefully 
with  an  ample  lap  to  the  margin.  No  art  could  produce 
better  effect.  The  long,  terraced  galleries  are  touched 
with  a  tender  green,  and  the  well-hollowed  vales,  now 


280  COAST   SCENERY. 

and  then  occurring,  and  ascending  to  the  distant  horizon 
between  ranks  of  rounded  hills,  look  green  and  pasture- 
like. All,  you  must  bear  in  mind,  is  treeless  nearly,  and 
utterly  lonely.  Here  and  there  are  small  detachments  of 
dwarf  firs,  looking  as  if  they  were  either  on  their  re- 
treat to  the  woodlands  of  a  warmer  clime,  or  on  their 
march  from  it,  in  order  to  get  a  foothold,  and  make  a 
forest  settlement  remote  from  the  woodman's  axe.  Any- 
way, in  their  lonesome  and  inhospitable  halt,  they  darken 
the  light  greens  and  the  gray  greens  with  very  lively  effect. 
The  Battery,  as  sailors  call  it,  is  a  wall  of  red  sand- 
stone, of  some  two  or  three  miles  in  extent,  with  hori- 
zontal lines  extending  from  one  extreme  to  the  other, 
and  perpendicular  fissures  resembling  embrasures  and 
gateways.  Swelling  out  with  grand  proportions  toward 
the  sea,  it  has  a  most  military  and  picturesque  appear- 
ance. At  one  point  of  this  huge  citadel  of  solitude, 
there  is  the  resemblance  of  a  giant  portal,  with  stupen- 
dous piers  two  hundred  feet  or  more  in  elevation.  They 
are  much  broken  by  the  yearly  assaults  of  the  frost,  and 
the  eye  darts  up  the  ruddy  ruins  with  surprise.  If  there 
was  anything  to  defend,  here  is  a  Gibraltar  at  hand,  with 
comparatively  small  labor,  whose  guns  could  nearly  cross 
the  strait.  Beneath  its  precipitous  cliffs  the  debris 
slopes  like  a  glacis  to  the  beach,  with  both  smooth  and 


COAST   SCENERY. 


281 


I 
I 


broken  surfaces,  and  all  very  handsomely  decorated  with 
rank  herbage.  Above  the  great  walls,  there  is  a  range 
of  terraces  ascending  with  marked  regularity  for  quite  a 
distance.  Miles  of  ascending  country,  prairie-like,  greet 
the  eye  along  this  edge  of  Labrador.  "  Arms  of  gold  " — 
is  it  ?  Possibly  these  promontories,  golden  in  the  rising 
and  the  setting  sun,  may  have  suggested  to  Cabot  or 
some  other  explorer,  before  or  since,  the  propriety  of  christ- 
ening this  dead  body  of  a  country  by  some  redeeming 
name. 

Among  the  very  pretty  and  refreshing  features  of  the 
coast  are  its  brooks,  seen  occasionally  falling  over  the 
rocks  in  white  cascades.  Harbors  are  passed  now  and 
then  with  small  fishing  fleets  and  dwellings.  Forteau 
has  a  church-spire  pointing  heavenward  among  its  white 
buildings  and  brown  masts,  and  is  the  most  eastern  place 
in  the  diocese  of  Newfoundland  visited  by  Bishop  Field. 
It  is  not  unlikely  that  he  is  now  there  engaged  in  the 
sacred  duties  of  his  office,  and  certainly  would  have  at- 
tracted us  thither,  could  we  have  spared  a  day.  On  the 
point  from  w^hich  we  took  our  final  departure  from  the 
north  shore,  stands  a  high  lighthouse,  erected  at  great 
cost,  and  around  its  base  are  clustering  the  greens  of  a 
kitchen  garden  !  Adieu,  bleak  Labrador  !  They  tell 
me  that  the  warmest  of  summers  is  now  upon  thy  honey- 


282  FAREWELL   TO   LABRADOR. 

less  and  milkless  land.  If  this  is  thy  July — I  say  it 
under  an  overcoat  of  the  deepest  nap — spare  me  thy 
December. 

But  why,  at  parting,  should  I  speak  roughly  unto 
thee,  and  whet  the  temper  to  talk  ill  of  thee,  in  the 
presence  of  rich  gardens,  yellow  fields,  and  ruddy  or- 
chards ?  Hast  not  thou  thy  homed  cariboo,  the  reindeer, 
thy  fox  of  costly  fur,  and  thy  wild-fowl  of  wintry  plu- 
mage ?  Hast  not  thou  thy  bright-eyed  salmon,  graced 
with  lines  as  dehcate  and  lovely  as  those  of  beauty's  arm, 
and  complexioned  like  the  marigold  "  damasked  by  the 
neighboring  rose  "  .? — thy  whales  and  seals  to  fill  with  oil 
the  lighthouse  lamp,  to  fill  with  starry  flame  the  lighthouse 
lantern  .^ — thy  pale  green  capelin,  silvery-sided  myriads 
that  allure  the  '^fish,''  calling  their  millions  to  the  hooks 
and  seines  of  thy  toiling  fishermen — ^hardy,  hospitable 
people,  whose  kentles  of  white-fleshed  cod  buy  the  ruby 
wine  and  yellow  fruits  of  Cuba  and  Oporto  .^  Hast  thou 
not  dealt  kindly  with  us,  and  shown  us  these  thy  fat 
things,  and  all  thy  richer,  nobler  treasures  ?  Hast  thou 
not  uncurtained  thy  resplendent  pictures  of  the  sky,  the 
ocean,  and  the  land  ?  And  have  we  not  gazed  delight- 
ed and  awe-struck  upon  the  grandeur  of  a  great  and 
terrible  wilderness,  upon  the  gloom  of  its  shadowy  atmos- 
phere, upon  the  brilliancy  of  its  sunlight  ?     Have  we 


FAREWELL    TO   LABRADOR. 


283 


not  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  billows  inarching  to  their 
encampment  in  the  grottoes  of  the  cliffs  ;  and  seen  the 
silent,  inshore  deeps  ;  the  imprisoned  islands  and  grim 
headlands  armed  with  impenetrable  granite  ;  the  vales 
and  dells,  and  hill- sides  with  their  mosses  and  their 
flowers,  sweet  odors,  and  sweet  melodies  ? — most  beau- 
tiful, most  wonderful  of  all,  thine  icebergs,  and  thy  twi- 
light heavens  ?  All  these,  and  more,  of  thy  greatness 
and  thy  glory,  have  we  looked  upon,  and  they  will  have 
their  reflections,  and  their  echoes  in  the  memory  forever. 
Beauty  may  watch,  and  supplicate,  and  weep  sometimes 
upon  the  crags  now  receding  from  our  view,  but  she  is 
surely  there,  and  native  to  the  wildest  pinnacle  and 
cavern.  And  while  to  the  careless  eye  and  thoughtless 
heart  thou  art  verily  dark  and  bleak,  yet  art  thou  neither 
barren  nor  unfruitful.     Old  Labrador,  farewell  ! 


CHAPTEK  LIII. 

WESTEEN     NEWFOUNDLAND,— THE    BAT,    THE     ISLANDS,    AND     THE 
HIGHLANDS    OF   ST.  JOHN.— INGOENACHOIX   BAY. 

Newfoundland  now  lifts  its  blue  summits  along  the 
southeast  sky,  a  kind  of  Catskill  heights,  with  here  and 
there  patches  of  snow,  that  recall  to  mind  the  White 
Mountain  House.  In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  we 
pass  them,  and  find  that  they  are  the  highlands  of  St. 
John,  the  loftiest,  I  believe,  in  the  island,  and  bound  the 
bay  called  by  the  same  lovely  name. 

What  a  region  for  romantic  excursion  !  Yonder  are 
wooded  mountains  with  a  sleepy  atmosphere,  and  at- 
tractive vales,  and  a  fine  river,  the  river  Castor,  flowing 
from  a  country  almost  unexplored  ;  and  here  are  green 
isles  spotting  the  sea — the  islands  of  St.  John.  Be- 
hind them  is  an  expanse  of  water,  alive  with  fish  and 
fowl,  the  extremes  of  which  are  lost  in  the  deep,  un- 
troubled wilderness.     A  month  would  not  suffice  to  find 


THE    HIGHLANDS   OF   ST.    JOHN.  285 

out  and  enjoy  its  manifold  and  picturesque  beauties, 
through  which  wind  the  deserted  trails  of  the  Ked 
Indian,  now  extinct  or  banished.  Why  they  should  have 
left,  with  all  these  unappropriated  breadths  of  solitude  for 
their  inheritance,  I  do  not  precisely  understand.  There 
are  mournful  tales  told  of  their  wrongs  and  their  revenges, 
the  old  story  of  contests  between  the  civilized  and  the 
savage. 

Yonder,  at  the  termination  of  the  highlands,  is  a 
cape,  no  matter  what  is  its  French  name,  since  directly 
behind  it  is  a  bay  with  an  Indian  name  tough  enough  to 
last  one  round  a  dozen  capes — the  Bay  of  Ingornachoix, 
noted  for  its  harbors,  inlets,  and  pretty  streams,  another 
fine  region  for  the  summer  tourist.  Beyond  the  woody 
distances  rising  in  the  east,  there  lies  a  lengthy  lake,  the 
centre  of  a  little  world  of  interest  to  the  lovers  of  nature 
and  the  picturesque.  It  is  no  great  distance  across  the 
island  here  to  the  shores  of  Whit©  Bay,  a  remote  expanse 
of  waters,  to  which  few  but  fishermen  have  any  occasion 
to  penetrate. 

As  the  evening  advances  the  wind  strengthens,  and 

bears  us  rapidly  along  the  coast.     Thus  we  are  encircling 

Newfoundland,  and  finding  spots  of  beauty,  to  which,  if 

B  we  may  not  return  ourselves,  we  can  direct  others  of  like 

H  taste  and  sentiment.     We  come  down  from  the  cold  air, 

m 


286  INGOKNACHOIX   BAY. 

and  from  looking  at  a  fine  aurora  now  playing  in  the 
skies,  and  gleaming  by  reflection  in  the  waves,  and  sit  by 
the  cabin  lights,  and  talk  and  write,  inspect  the  sketches, 
and  listen  to  the  roar  of  winds  and  surges — rather  melan- 
choly music. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

SLOW   SAILING   BY    THE    BAY   OF    ISLANDS.— THE   EIVEE   HUMBER.— 
ST.  GEOEGE'S  EIVEE,  CAPE,  AND  BAY. -A  BEILLIANT   SUNSET. 

Tuesday,  July  19.  We  have  a  brilliant  morning 
and  a  favoring  breeze,  but  a  vexatious  current.  What  a 
net  of  these  currents  has  the  tyrannous  Neptune  set 
around  his  beloved  Newfoundland  !  Like  a  web  in  a 
dim  cellar  window,  it  is  perpetually  entangling  some  fly 
of  a  craft  in  its  subtle  meshes.  Buzz  and  struggle  as 
we  will,  he  has  got  us  by  the  foot,  and,  spider-like,  may 
look  on,  and  enjoy  our  perplexity.  We  advance  with 
insufferable  slowness,  notwithstanding  the  considerable 
speed  of  our  rounded  bows,  through  the  water.  "  That  is 
the  Bay  of  Islands,"  they  said,  early  in  the  morning.  It 
is  the  Bay  of  Islands  still.  We  are  a  long  time  saiHng 
by  the  Bay  of  Islands.  But  it  gives  us  time  to  look, 
and  talk  about  it  with  the  Captain.  Beyond  the  forest- 
covered  hills  which  surround  it,  are  lakes  as  beautiful. 


288  ST.  George's  river,  cape,  and  bay. 

and  larger  than  Lake  George,  the  cold,  clear  waters  of 
which  flow  to  the  bay  under  the  name  of  the  river 
Humber.  It  has  a  valley  like  Wyoming,  and  more 
romantic  scenery  than  the  Susquehanna.  The  Bay  of 
Islands  is  also  a  bay  of  streams  and  inlets,  an  endless 
labyrinth  of  cliffs  and  woods  and  waters,  where  the 
summer  voyager  would  delight  to  wander,  and  which  is 
worth  a  volume  sparkling  with  pictures. 

How  fine  a  blue  the  waters  of  the  gulf  are  in  this 
light  !  We  seem  to  be  upon  the  broad  Atlantic.  What 
a  realm  of  seas  and  shores,  islands,  bays  and  rivers,  is 
this  St.  Lawrence  world,  in  the  midst  of  which  we  now 
are,  and  of  which  our  people  know  so  little  !  Where  are 
our  young  men,  who  have  the  time  and  money  to  skip, 
from  summer  to  summer,  in  the  fashionable  rounds  of 
travel,  that  they  do  not  seek  this  virgin  scenery  ?  One 
long,  loud  yell  of  the  black  loon,  deep  diver  of  these  lakes 
and  fiords,  pealing  through  the  silent  evening,  would  ring 
in  their  recollection  long  after  the  music  of  city  parks 
abroad  had  been  forgotten. 

Late  in  the  day,  and  Cape  St.  George  in  view,  a  bold 
and  clifted  point  pushed  out  from  the  mainland  twenty 
miles  or  more,  and  commanding  extensive  prospects  both 
inland  and  along  the  coast.  A  month  would  not  suffice 
for  all  its  many  landscapes.     St.  George's  Kiver  is  a  wild, 


iLIANT    SUNSET. 


289 


I 


rapid  stream,  and  St.  George's  Bay  is  quite  a  little  sea, 
deep,  and  darkened  by  the  shadows  of  fine  mountains, 
and  broad  woodlands.  Like  the  Bay  of  Islands,  it  is  a 
paradise  for  the  huntsman,  and  the  fisher.  Awake,  ye 
devotees  of  the  fishing-rod  and  rifle,  and  the  red  camp- 
fire  beneath  the  green-wood  trees,  and  know  that  to  visit 
St.  George's  cape  and  bay  and  river,  and  all  that  is  St. 
George's,  is  better  late  than  never. 

The  sun  is  in  the  waves,  and  yonder  we  have  those 
wonderful  heavens  again.  The  west  is  all  one  bath  of 
colors,  colors  of  the  rainbow.  And  clouds  like  piled-up 
fleeces,  and  like  fleeces  pulled  apart  and  scattered,  and 
fleeces  spun  into  soft  and  woolly  threads,  and  again  those 
threads  woven  into  downy  fabrics,  are  weltering  in  the 
glory.  The  wind  has  fallen,  and  the  waves  have  put  out 
all  their  white,  flashing  lights,  and  now  mould  themselves 
into  the  flowing  lines  and  the  sweetest  forms  of  beauty. 
We  go  down  with  glad  hearts,  and  ask  protection  for  the 
night. 


13 


CHAPTEK    LV. 

FOUL  WEATHEE.— CAPE  ANGUILLE.  —  THE  CLEAEING  OEF.  — THE 
FEOLIO  OF  THE  POEPOISES.— THE  NEW  COOKS.— THE  SHIP'S 
CAT. 

Wednesday,  July  20.  We  have  a  misty  morning, 
and  a  contrary  wind.  If  there  are  any  two  words  in 
English,  that  early  fell  in  love  and  married,  and  have  a 
numerous  progeny,  those  words  are  Patience  and  Progress. 
They  do  not  walk  hand  in  hand,  but,  like  the  red  Ind- 
ians, in  single  file.  If  Progress  walk  before.  Patience  is 
close  behind,  which  order  of  march  now  happens  to  pre- 
vail, a.nd  a  good  deal  to  our  discomfort.  In  the  mean  time, 
in  company  with  this  leisurely  and  quiet  maid,  we  are 
beating  in  and  out  from  land,  in  long  and  tedious 
stretches,  with  large  gains  upon  one  tack,  and  nearly  as 
large  losses  on  the  other. 

Peeping  through  the  rainy  atmosphere  is  Cape  An- 


THE   FROLIC    OF   THE    PORPOISES.  291 

guille,  the  neighboring  heights  of  which  are  five  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  tide,  and  sweep  off  in  dim  and 
lengthy  lines.  The  strong  head-wind  is  blowing  away 
the  mists,  the  seas  are  up  in  arms,  crested  with  snowy 
plumes,  flashing  and  sparkling.  Clouds,  in  white  uniform, 
at  quick-time  march  in  long  battalions,  moving  inland 
and  leaving  the  defenceless  shores  to  sunshine  and  the 
dashing  surf.  The  sails  mutter  a  deep,  low  bass.  The 
"  puffpigs,"  classic  name  for  porpoise,  are  playing  a  thou- 
sand pranks  about  us,  and  we  are  partners  in  the  frolic  ; 
watching,  laughing  at,  and  pelting  them,  all  of  which 
they  seem  to  regard  as  the  merest  nonsense  of  only  a 
tubfuU  of  helpless  creatures  in  the  upper  air.  They  ap- 
pear to  be  in  the  very  highest  glee,  a  party  of  fast  young 
fellows,  well  bred  and  fed,  and  in  holiday  fin  and  skin. 
Like  swallows  round  a  barn,  they  play  about  our  bows, 
L  wheeling,  plunging,  darting  to  the  surface,  spouting, 
splashing,  every  tail  and  rolling  back  of  them  full  of  fun 
and  laughter.  After  a  spell  of  this  ground  and  lofty 
tumbling  in  the  shadow  of  our  jib,  away  they  trip  it,  like 
so  many  frisky  buffalo  calves,  side  by  side,  in  squads  and 
couples,  crossing  and  recrossing,  kicking  up  their  heels 
and  turning  summersets — a  kind  of  rollicking  good-by. 
Not  a  bit  of  it :  round  they  come  again,  by  tens  and 
twenties,  wild  with  merriment,  on  a  perfect  gaUop,  and 


292  THE    NEW    COOKS. 

dive  below  the  vessel.  Up  they  pop  with  puff  and  snort 
on  all  sides  and  ends,  and  dart  away  like  shuttles,  with  a 
thread  of  light  behind  them,  to  go  over  and  over  again 
the  gamesome  round. 

Sandy,  whose  coarse  good  nature  has  been  dropping 
from  his  very  finger  ends  in  the  way  of  stones  thrown  at 
the  jolly  fishes,  has  the  smallest  possible  aptitude  for  the 
domestic  art  he  is  practising.  Neither  does  his  fancy 
take  at  all  to  the  fair  ways  of  neatness.  Beyond  frying 
pork  and  fish  in  one  pan,  and  boiling  potatoes  in  one  pot, 
and  making  tea  in  one  kettle,  as  a  housewife  steeps  her 
simples,  and  every  separate  vessel,  fakir-like,  to  sit  from 
meal  to  meal  in  undisturbed  repose,  wrapped  in  the 
dingy  mantle  of  its  own  defilement,  Sandy  has  no  ambi- 
tion. Indignant,  his  superiors  have  read  him  several 
homilies  to  the  point.  But  the  lessons  have  fallen  upon 
his  attention  like  the  first  drops  of  a  shower  upon  a 
duck's  back.  The  painter  even  went  so  far  as  to  indulge 
himself  in  a  brief,  emphatic  charge,  in  the  end  of  which 
there  darted  out  a  stinging  threat,  anent  washing  and 
scouring.  Across  the  cloud  of  Sandy's  unhappy  brow  a 
faint  smile  was,  at  length,  seen  to  pass,  and  charge  and 
threat  dropped  like  pebbles  into  the  muddy  deeps  of  his 
forgetfulness.  Sandy,  therefore,  has  virtually  been  de- 
posed,  and  now  occupies  the  lowly  position  of  a  mere 


THE    NEW    COOKS.  293 

lackey  to  cooks  of  character.  There  are  now,  instead  of 
one  indifferent,  three  pre-eminent  cocks  :  a  painter,  a 
captain,  and  a  writer.  They  employ,  divert,  and  fre- 
quently disappoint  themselves  in  the  several  dishes  they 
attempt.  Not  that  the  dishes  in  themselves  are  so 
bad,  but  that  they  fall  so  far  short  of  the  ideal  of  the 
excellent. 

When  I  was  a  lad,  spruce-beer  and  gingerbread  were 
the  nectar  and  ambrosia  at  general  trainings.  I  wanted 
some  ambrosia.  The  cooking-stove  was  instantly  fired, 
and  so  was  the  painter,  on  the  important  occasion,  who, 
fi:om  his  skill  in  combining  pigments  on  his  pallet,  had 
suspicions  of  ability  in  compounding  ingredients  for  the 
pan  and  oven  ;  and  therefore,  nothing  loth,  was  persuaded 
to  undertake,  with  the  secrecy  of  some  hoar  alchemist  of 
old,  in  the  dim  retirement  of  the  cabin,  the  conglomera- 
tion from  flour  and  ginger,  sugar,  salt,  soda  and  hot 
water,  of  a  tremulous  mass  that  should  emanate,  under 
his  plastic  hand,  in  a  generous  and  tempting  cake.  To 
the  large  surprise  of  both  mariner  and  author,  order  at 
length  arose  out  of  that  chaos  in  a  milk-pan,  and  appear- 
ed in  upper  day,  when,  with  conscious  but  with  a  modest 
air  of  triumph,  it  was  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  chief- 
baker,  who  *roasted  both  it  and  himself,  for  a  sultry  and 
smoky  hour,  with  entire  success.     Hot  as  metal  from  a 


294  THE    NEW    COOKS. 

furnace,  and  of  a  rich  Potawatomie  red,  it  was  tasted, 
and  found  nearly  as  hot  with  ginger,  and  then  prudently 
laid  away  to  cool  and  petrify.  The  history  of  the  decline 
and  fall  of  that  memorable  loaf  will  probably  never  be 
written.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that,  although  the  disin- 
tegrating process  was  at  first  a  little  difficult,  owing  to 
some  doubt  about  the  proper  instrumentalities,  yet  it  is 
now  easily  dissected  with  a  saw.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
remark,  that  but  one  such  batch  of  the  ruddy  bread 
is  needed  on  a  pleasure- voyage.  The  painter  has 
fresh  reason  to  congratulate  himself  that  in  all  his 
works  he  succeeds  in  imparting  an  element  of  per- 
petuity. 

Our  great  difficulty  is  the  smallness  of  the  caboose 
and  the  stove,  which  will  not  permit  the  carrying  on  of 
all  operations  at  the  same  time — a  circumstance  which  is 
apt  to  leave  no  more  than  a  kindly  warmth,  if  not  a 
decided  coolness,  in  all  dishes  but  the  last  in  hand.  We, 
the  landsmen  of  the  culinary  trio,  have  also  a  dreadful 
foe  to  fight,  and,  in  any  thing  like  a  severe  battle,  are 
sure  to  fall.  It  is  ever  lurking  near  our  outposts,  and  is 
sure  to  rush  upon  us  in  rough  weather.  They  called  it 
sea-sickness,  I  dare  say,  as  early  as  when  they  voyaged 
for  the  golden  fleece.  Its  efiects  are  described,  in  a  lan- 
guage more  venerable  than  that  of  Greece  :  "  They  reel 


THE  ship's  cat.  295 

to  and  fro,  and  stagger  like  a  drunken  man,  and  are  at 
their  wits'  end."  That  describes  our  case  exactly.  It 
lays  both  dishes  and  ourselves  completely  on  the  shelf. 
Forthwith  tea,  cakes  and  coffee,  meats,  vegetables,  fruits, 
and  fish  are  allowed  a  play-spell,  perhaps  a  long  yellow 
holiday,  and  may  go  on  a  pic-nic,  a  bathing,  or  a  fishing, 
or  a  shooting  frolic  under  the  table,  among  the  baggage, 
or  around  the  cabin  floor,  as  the  bend  of  things  incline. 
The  Captain,  however,  is  apt  to  interpose  in  such  dis- 
orders, and  discipline  the  wild  wares  much  to  his  own, 
and  often  to  our  relief. 

We  are  amused,  annoyed,  and  distressed  at  the 
ship's  cat.  She  is  an  incorrigible  thief  and  pick-shelf, 
and  bent  on  making  the  most  of  us  while  we  last.  The 
painter  is  down  upon  her,  and  will  not  endure  her  for  a 
moment.  The  cabin  was  recently  the  field  of  a  bloodless 
battle,  the  din  whereof  was  startling  as  far  off  as  the 
caboose,  in  the  smoke  of  which  I  was  weeping  over 
the  remains  of  the  late  breakfast.  Loud  shouting,  in- 
terspersed with  shocks  of  irate  bodies,  boots,  broom, 
cane,  against  barrels  and  amongst  boxes  came  upon  the 
peaceful  ear,  and  warned  me  to  hasten  to  the  edge  of 
things  and  look  down.  Tantaane  animis  celestibus  irse  ! 
There  was  jio  consciousness  of  a  spectator  of  the  militant 
manoeuvres,  but  a  mighty  thrashing  and  furious  thrust- 


296  THE  ship's  cat. 

ing,  and  whipping  of  a  scraggy  spruce-bough  among  tubs, 
jugs,  and  cans,  and  away  behind.  There  was  *  steady 
fire  in  the  face,  and  a  pistol-shot  sharpness  in  the 
"  scat/'  Grimalkin  answered  with  a  terrible  wauling, 
and  finally  with  fixed  tail  made  a  dash  past  the  enemy, 
escaping  up  the  steps  into  my  face  and  eyes  almost,  and 
retreating  to  the  bowsprit.  Puss  is  a  bold  sailor.  She 
skips  upon  the  taffrail,  climbs  the  shrouds,  sits  with  ease 
and  dignity  upon  the  boom,  yawns  and  stretches  among 
the  rigging.  Poor  Pussy,  she  is  not  a  silken-haired, 
daintily-fed  cat,  but  a  creature  of  backbone  and  ribs, 
coated  with  fur  unlicked  and  scorched,  indicative  of 
kicks  and  a  meagre  cupboard.  She  treads  no  downy 
bed,  and  purs  in  no  loved  daughter's  lap.  As  she  comes 
mewing  gingerly  about  my  feet,  and  coils  herself  in  a 
sunny  twist  of  rope,  I  think  of  our  own  household  tabby, 
and  call  her  by  all  the  feline  names  expressive  of  good- 
will and  tenderness. 

How  the  breeze  pipes  !  Hoarse  music  this,  played 
upon  the  cordage  of  our  light  little  schooner.  Old  Saint 
Laurent,  thy  winds  and  waves  are  not  always  symbols  of 
a  martyr's  gentleness.  A  few  seasons  ago,  just  here  in 
sight  of  yonder  hills  and  valleys  now  dreaming  under  an 
atmosphere  of  quiet.  Captain  Knight  experienced  a  most 
appalling  sea.     While  there  is  nothing  terrible  in  these 


THE    SHIP  S    CAT. 


297 


now  breaking  over  our  barriers  every  few  minutes,  yet 
they  effectually  upset  the  stomach,  and  hence  all  com- 
fort. We  lie  upon  the  slant  deck  in  the  sunshine, 
sheltered  near  the  helm,  and  see  the  spray  fly  over  us, 
and  watch  the  idle  flourishing  of  the  topmast. 


13* 


CHAPTEE  LVI. 

ST.  PAUL'S  ISLAND.— CAPE  NOETII.— COAST  OF  CAPE  BEETON.— SYD- 
NEY  LIGHT  AND  HAEBOE.— THE  END  OF  OUE  VOYAGE  TO  LAB- 
EADOE,  AND  ABOUND  NEWFOUNDLAND. 

Thuksday,  July  21.  After  a  boisterous  night  we 
are  on  deck  again,  and  find  a  pleasant  change  in  the 
wind.  It  is  gray  and  rainy,  but  then  our  sails  swell, 
and  we  rush  southward. 

A  dome  of  inhospitable  rock  peers  through  the  mist, 
one  of  nature's  penitentiaries,  which  no  living  man  would 
own,  and  so  has  been  deeded  to  St.  Paul :  Melita  is 
Eden  to  it.  The  saints,  it  appears  to  me,  have  been 
gifted  with  the  ruggedest  odds  and  ends.  Wherever,  on 
all  these  cast-iron  shores,  there  is  a  flinty  promontory, 
upon  which  Prometheus  himself  would  have  shuddered 
to  be  chained,  there  the  name  of  an  apostle  has  been 
transfixed.  Yonder  is  Cape  North,  the  stony  arrow- 
head of  Cape  Breton,  a  headland,  rather  a  multitudinous 


COAST  OF  CAPE  BRETON.  299 

groap  of  mountain  headlands,  draped  with  gloomy  gran- 
deur, against  the  black  cliffs  of  which  the  surf  is  now 
firing  its  snowy  rockets.  How  is  it  they  have  not  called 
it  Cape  St.  Mary  or  St.  John  ?  All  in  all,  this  is  a  fine 
termination  of  the  picturesque  isle.  Steep  and  lofty,  its 
summits  are  darkened  by  steepled  evergreens,  and  its 
many  sides  gashed  with  horrid  fissures  and  ravines. 

Here  we  part  from  the  broad  gulf,  and  enter  the 
broader  ocean,  passing  between  the  promontories  of  Cape 
Breton  and  the  last  capes  of  Newfoundland,  Cape  An- 
guille,  and  Cape  Eay  with  its  rocky  domes  and  tables. 
Thus  have  we  fairly  encompassed  this  Ireland  of  Amer- 
ica, in  all  but  climate:  White  seabirds,  with  long  wings 
tipped  with  black,  sweep  the  air.  We  speed  onward  and 
homeward  past  the  many-folded  mountains.  The  eye 
slides  along  their  graceful  outlines,  and  follows  their 
winding  shores.  Through  the  deep  valleys  we  look 
upon  the  landscapes  interior,  softened  by  a  purple  at- 
mosphere. Clouds  are  breaking  around  the  woody  sum- 
mits, seas  of  forest-tops  are  smiling  in  the  sunshine,  and 
shadows  are  filling  the  rocky  gorges  with  a  kind  of 
V  twilight.  At  last  the  sun  is  sinking  behind  the  distant 
heights,  and  leaving   his   red   footsteps   on  the  clouds. 

B    C is  painting  his  last  picture,  and  these  are  the  last 

B    pencillings  of  the  voyage,    We  hail  the  cliffs  of  Sydney — 


300       END  OF  OUE  VOYAGE  TO  LABRADOR. 

those  remarkable  cliffs  that  sat  upon  the  horizon  like 
tinted  sea-shells,  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  we  were  on 
our  way  to  St.  Johns.  And  yonder  is  the  Sydney  light 
twinkling  through  the  dusk  of  evening.  Our  summer 
sail  to  Labrador  and  around  Newfoundland  is  over. 
Where  the  anchor  brings  the  vessel  to  a  pause,  there 
shall  we  leave  the  brave  little  pinkstern.  May  her 
wanderings  in  the  future  under  the  Union  Jack  be  as 
happy  as  those  of  the  present  have  been  under  the  Stars 
and  Stripes.  Thankful  for  the  Divine  care,  we  will  ask 
protection  for  the  night,  and  guidance  home,  the  final 
haven  where  we  would  be. 


CHAPTER    LVII. 

FAREWELL     TO     CAPTAIN     KNIGHT.— ON     OUK     WAY     ACEOSS     CAPE 
BEETON.— A    MEEEY    EIDE,    AND    THE    EUSTIC    LOVEE. 


Friday,  July  22.  Sydney  harbor.  A  bright  morn- 
ing, and  the  wind  from  the  quarter  where  we  should  be 
happy  to  find  it,  were  we  going  to  sea.  But,  selfish 
souls  !  because  it  puts  us  to  a  small  inconvenience,  we 
now  wish  that  it  did  not  blow,  and  that  we  may  have 
calm  weather.  We  are  to  breakfast,  to  finish  packing, 
and  take  our  leave  of  Captain  Knight,  from  whom  we 
part  with  emotions  of  regret.  He  will  depart  in  the 
next  steamer  for  St.  Johns,  and  we  start  for' Halifax  by 
an  inland  route. 

Here  we  are,  on  our  way  across  the  Island  of  Cape 

Breton,  bound  for  Nova  Scotia.     Our  baggage — trunks, 

H     carpet-bags,      reindeer-horns,     snow-shoes,    plants,   and 

^L    mosses — in  a  one-horse  wagon,  goes   ahead  ;   we  follow 


302  OUR   WAY    ACROSS   CAPE    BRETON. 

in  another.  We  are  delighted  with  the  change  from 
rolling  waves  to  rolling  wheels.  We  are  delighted  with 
our  spirited  nag.  We  are  delighted  with  the  scenery, 
which,  however,  is  in  no  way  remarkable.  I  believe  that 
we  should  be  delighted  if  we  were  riding  through  a 
smoky  tunnel.  The  truth  is  the  delight  is  in  us,  and 
will  flow  out,  and  would,  be  the  world  about  us  what  it 
might.  Every  thing  amuses  us,  even  the  provoking  trick 
our  pony  has  of  slightly  kicking  up,  every  time  the 
breeching  cuts  into  his  hams  upon  going  down  hiU.  As 
may  be  supposed,  said  pony  is  a  creature  of  importance 
to  us,  now  that  he  is  our  motive  power.  We  do  not  look 
at  the  clouds  now,  and  watch  the  temper  of  the  atmos- 
phere ;  our  eyes  are  upon  the  body  and  legs  of  the  little 
fellow  wrapped  in  this  brown  skin.  After  the  first  effer- 
vescence of  spirit  upon  starting,  with  which,  of  course, 
we  were  much  delighted,  he  began  to  lag  a  trifle,  and  to 
raise  suspicions  that  he  was  not  the  horse  good-natured 
Mr.  D earing,  his  master,  said  he  was.  We  are  pleased 
to  find  ourselves  mistaken.  Our  very  blunders  are  sat- 
isfactory. The  longer  he  goes  the  smarter  he  grows,  giv- 
ing us  symptoms  of  a  disposition  to  run  away,  when  or- 
dinarily we  might  look  for  any  thing  else.  Let  him  run. 
We  can  ride  as  fast,  and  come  in  not  a  length  behind,  at 
the  end  of  our  thirty-two  miles,  the  distance  to  a  tavern. 


A    MERRY    RIDE,    AND    THE    RUSTIC    LOVER. 


I 
I 


The  ride  along  the  shore  of  Sydney  harbor,  over  a 
smooth,  hard  road,  was  really  charming,  and  would  have 
been  to  travellers  of  ill  temper.  Wild  roses  incensed  the 
fresh  air,  and  the  sunshine  was  bright  upon  the  clover- 
fields.  On  the  steamer  down  from  Halifax  to  Sydney, 
I  became  acquainted  with  a  tradesman,  an  intelligent 
Scotch  Presbyterian.  Who  should  come  running  out  of 
a  little  country  store  by  the  road-side,  with  a  shout  that 
brought  our  nag  down  upon  his  haunches,  but  our  friend  ! 
He,  too,  was  delighted,  and  shook  us  heartily  by  the  hand, 
asking  after  "  the  Labrador,"  the  icebergs,  and  our  voyage 
in  general.  Set  in  the  midst  of  our  pleasure  was  one 
regret  :  our  want  of  time  to  visit  Louisburg,  or  the  ruins 
of  it.  We  talked  it  over,  and  then  dismissed  both  the 
ruins  aaid  the  regret. 

From  the  bay  of  Sydney  the  way  is  wonderfully 
serpentine  for  a  main  road,  winding  about  apparently  for 
the  mere  love  of  winding,  and  when  there  seems  no 
more  real  necessity  for  it  than  for  a  brook  in  a  level 
meadow.  We  have  liked  it  all  the  better,  though,  run- 
ning, as  it  does,  around  the  slightest  hills,  wooded  with 
the  perpetual  spruce,  intermingled  with  the  birch  and 
maple,  crossing  with  a  graceful  twist  little  farms,  and 
coming  around  garden  fences,  by  the  farmers'  doors,  under 
the  willows  and  the  apple  trees.     The  native  Indians, 


304         A    MERKY    EIDE,    AND    THE    RUSTIC    LOVER. 

tricked  out  with  cheap,  showy  finery,  whose  huts  are  seen 
lazily  smoking  among  the  bushes,  were  occasionally  met, 
and  chatted  with.  A  young  Mc.  something,  upon  whose 
sleepy  face  was  the  moonshine  of  a  smile,  was  found 
trotting  his  chestnut  filly  close  behind  our  wagon.  The 
persistence  in  the  thing  was  becoming  disagreeable,  and 
we  looked  round  several  times  with  an  expression  which 
said  plainly  :  "  Please  keep  a  little  back."  Mc.  was  in  no 
humor  to  take  the  hint.  When  our  pace  quickened,  the 
click  of  his  horse's  shoes,  and  the  breath  of  his  steed,  which 
carried  a  high  head,  were  close  upon  us  ;  a  sudden  slack- 
ening of  our  speed  brought  him,  horse-head  and  all,  as 
suddenly  into  our  midst.  Presently  he  changed  his 
tactics,  and  dashed  by,  brushing  the  wheels  with  his 
stirrup,  and  so  trotting  on  ahead,  taking  occasion  to  twist 
himself  on  the  saddle,  when  a  walk  permitted,  and  look 
back.  The  fellow  was  a  character,  although  of  the  softer 
kind,  and  we  struck  up  an  acquaintance,  during  which, 
in  the  effort  to  sustain  his  part  of  the  conversation,  he 
rode  around  us  in  all  possible  ways.  A  particularly 
favorite  position  was  in  the  gutter  at  our  side,  where,  in 
spite  of  our  united  care,  he  would  now  and  then  be 
literally  run  up  a  stump,  or  a  bank.  Whether  on  the 
lead,  or  following,  we  kept  him  frequently  at  break-neck 
speed,  during  which  the  conversation  was   mostly  con- 


MERRY    RIDE,    AND    THE    RUSTIC    LOVER.  305 


fined  to  monosyllables — loud  and  few — and,  when  for- 
ward, discharged  now  over  one,  and  then  over  the 
other  shoulder.  Mc.  was  a  farmer,  and  lived  with  "  the 
old  folks  at  home."  He  had  been  on  a  courting  ex- 
J)edition,  in  which  he  considered  himself  successful.  In 
fact,  he  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  told  us  the 
pleasant  story  of  his  love,  and  the  fine  qualities  of  the 
lass  of  whom  he  was  enamored.  Although  she  might 
not  be  thought  handsome  by  a  great  many,  yet  she 
was  handsome  to  him.  Never  errant  knight  rehearsed 
a  softer  tale  in  shorter  periods,  with  a  louder  voice, 
or  happier  heart.  He  was  full  of  it,  and  it  mattered 
little  to  whom,  or  how  he  uttered  it.  For  what  dis- 
tance he  was  intending  to  bear  us  company,  I  have  no 
notion.  The  house  of  an  acquaintance,  at  the  gate  of 
which  were  several  persons,  who  seemed  at  once  to  under- 
stand him,  and  whose  faces  were  so  many  open  doors  of 
curiosity,  finally  relieved  us  of  him.  It  was  evidently 
undesigned,  and  he  puUed  up,  I  thought,  somewhat 
reluctantly. 


CHAPTEE  LVIII. 

EVENING  EIDE  TO  MKS.  KELLY'S  TA VEEN.— THE  SUPPEE,  AND  THE 

LODGING. 

At  a  sort  of  half- way  house,  the  driver  of  the  bag- 
gage-wagon stopped  to  feed  and  water,  and  I  walked  on 
alone,  leaving  the  painter  with  his  sketch-book.  For  a 
mile  or  more,  the  road  womid  its  way  through  thick 
woods,  mostly  spruce,  and  ''  I  whistled  as  I  went,"  cer- 
tainly  not  "for  want  of  thought,"  and  sang  for  the 
solitude,  and  was  answered  by  the  ringing  echoes  and  the 
wood-thrush,  whose  sweet  melody,  sounding  with  a  sil- 
very, metallic  ring,  often  made  me  pause  and  listen. 
Ked  raspberries,  pendent  from  the  slender  bushes, 
tempted  me  frequently  to  spring  up  the  broken,  earthy 
bank,  where,  to  my  surprise  I  met  the  first  strawberries 
coming  on  from  the  juicier  climes.  Kuby  darlings,  they 
had  got  only  thus  far  along,  and  looked  timid  and  dis- 
heartened, dropping  wearily  into  the  mossy  turf,  where 


I 
I 


EVENING    RIDE    TO    MRS.    KELLY's    TAVERN.  307 

they  trembled  like  drops  of  blood.  And  so  I  loitered 
along  tbe  lonely  highway,  up  which  the  sweetest  of  all 
the  fruits  were  coming,  and  over  which  the  wild  birds 
were  pouring  forth  their  songs,  and  felt  that  I  was  only 
very,  very  happily  going  on  toward  heaven,  taking  home 
and  loving,  and  beloved  ones  by  the  way.  In  the  middle 
of  the  forest,  I  met  a  tall,  thin  Indian  in  ragged,  Eng- 
lish dress.  He  passed  me  by  silently,  and  with  an  air 
of  bashfulness.  I  was  a  little  disappointed.  When 
I  saw  him  approaching,  I  proposed  to  myself  a  rest  upon 
a  log  near  by,  and  a  talk  with  the  man  about  his  people. 
The  wagons  came  up  presently,  and  I  resumed  the  reins, 
having,  at  the  outset,  been  voted  by  a  small  majority 
much  the  better  whip. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  we  came  upon  the  shores  of 
Bras  D'or,  a  fiord  or  inlet  extending  in  from  the  ocean, 
and  winding  for  many  miles  among  hills,  farms  and 
woodlands  in  a  manner  exceedingly  picturesque.  The 
ride  was  lovely,  too  lovely  for  the  merriment  in  which  we 
had  been  freely  indulging.  Ebullitions  of  mirth  gave 
way  to  thoughts  and  emotions  arising  from  the  beauty 
of  the  scenery  and  the  hour.  Clouds  of  dazzling  flame, 
and  a  rosy  sunset  were  reflected  in  the  purple  waters. 
As  we  came  on  at  a  rapid  pace  through  the  twilight  and 
the  succeeding  darkness,  rounding  the  hills  abutting  on 


308  EVENING    RIDE    TO    MRS.    KELLY'S    TAVERN. 

the  water,  and  tliridding  bits  of  wood,  we  settled  into  a 
stillness  as  unbroken  as  if  we  had  been  riding  alone.  It 
was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  we  arrived  at  our  inn, 
none  the  worse  for  our  drive  of  thirty-two  miles,  good 
measure. 

Our  inn  !  Imagine,  if  you  will,  a  long,  low-roofed, 
dingy  white  house,  with  a  front  piazza,  and  hard  by  a 
sign  swinging  from  the  limb  of  a  broad  shade  tree, 
creaking  harsh  plaints  to  the  lazy  breeze,  and,  in  dark 
letters,  asserting  from  year  to  year  that  this  is  the 
traveller's  home.  If  it  be  your  pleasure  to  indulge  in 
such  imaginings,  let  me  at  once  assure  you  that  in  our 
Cape  Breton  Inn  there  is  no  corresponding  reality.  -  In- 
stantly extinguish  from  your  mind  said  white  house, 
tree  and  sign,  and  put  in  the  place  of  them  a  log  cabin 
of  the  old  school,  in  the  naked  arms  of  the  weather, 
backed  by  a  stumpy  field  and  weedy  potato-patch,  and 
fronted  by  a  couple  of  rickety  log  sheds.  That  antique 
mensuration  accomplished  by  the  swinging  of  a  cat  would 
very  nearly  decide  the  whole  extent  of  the  interior,  one 
side  of  which  is  a  fire-place  and  fire,  around  which  re- 
volve, as  primary  orb,  the  hostess,  Mrs.  Kelly,  and  as 
satellites,  a  son  and  daughter  and  maid- servant.  With 
all  these  powers,  and  with  ample  time,  you  may  guess 
that  we  sat  down  at  last  to  a  savory  and  generous  sup- 


THE    SUPPER    AND    LODGING.  309 

per.  There  was  tea,  somewhat  intimate,  to  be  sure,  with 
the  waterpot,  and  there  was  bread,  nice  as  the  Queen  her- 
self ever  gets  at  Balmoral.  The  butter,  alas  !  was  afflicted 
with  that  ailment  which  seems  to  be  chronic  throughout 
these  her  majesty's  dominions,  rancidity  and  salt.  But 
the  milk  was  creamy,  and  the  eggs  fresh  as  newly-cut 
marble,  and  the  berry-pie,  served  at  the  hands  of  the 
daughter,  a  neat  and  modest  girl  with  pretty  face  and 
figure,  was  a  becoming  finish  to  the  meal. 

Mrs.  Kelly  is  a  Highland  widow,  of  whom  a  story 
may  be  told,  not  indeed  of  the  tragic  character  of  Sir 
Walter's  Highland  Widow,  but  sufficiently  mournful. 
She  walked  back  and  forth  before  the  door,  and  seemed 
to  take  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  relating  it.  Two  fine 
boys  had  been  tempted  to  leave  her,  of  whom  she  had 
not  heard  a  syllable  for  years,  but  for  whom,  even  then, 
she  was  looking  with  the  hope  and  yearning  love  of 
Margaret  in  Wordsworth's  "  Excursion."  Her  husband, 
land  man,  was  in  the  grave.  Her  two  children  and  her 
little  farm  were  much  to  be  thankful  for.  But  then  it 
was  not  Scotland.  A  sad  day  for  her  when  they  were 
persuaded  to  leave  "home."  The  land  here  was  not 
productive,  and  the  winters  were  so  long  and  snowy. 
There  was,  however,  a  bright  side  to  her  fortunes,  and  I 
tried  to  make  her  see  it.     At  the  conclusion  of  the  talk, 


310  THE    SUPPER    AND    LODGING. 

she  asked  me  in  to  read  a  chapter^  and  offer  the  evening 
prayer. 

It  was  getting  late,  and  I  asked  to  retire.  I  found 
that  we  had  retired.  We  were  sitting  in  our  private 
chamber,  and  the  closely-curtained  bed  behind  us,  a 
match  for  one  in  an  opposite  corner,  too  long  and  too 
wide  for  a  lad  in  his  teens,  was  the  appointed  couch  for 
two  of  us,  and  all  ready.  There  were  nine  or  ten  of  us, 
,all  told,  and  among  them  the  daughter's  lover,  a  good- 
looking  and  very  well-appearing  young  man.  Now  that 
we  were  provided  for,  it  was  certainly  no  concern  of  ours 
how  and  where  the  others  were  to  lodge,  although  I  could 
not  avoid  feeling  some  interest  in  the  matter.  To  hasten 
things  to  a  conclusion,  I  rose,  wound  my  watch,  took  off 
my  boots,  my  coat  and  vest,  demonstrations  of  my  inten- 
tion of  going  at  once  to  bed  that  were  not  mistaken.  Im- 
mediately all  walked  out  of  the  house,  and  remained  out, 
talking  in  the  open  air,  until  we  were  snugly  packed  away 
and  pinned  in  behind  the  scant  curtains,  when  they  re- 
turned, and  noiselessly  went  to  rest  in  some  order  peculiar 
to  the  household,  dividing  between  them  the  other  bed, 
the  floor,  and  the  small  chamber  under  the  roof.  When, 
in  her  native  land,  an  ebony  lady  entertained  Mungp  Park, 
she  and  her  maids  lightened  their  nocturnal  labors — spin- 
ning cotton — by  singing  plaintive  songs,  the  burden  of 


THE    SUPPER    AND    LODGING.  311 

which  was  "  the  poor  white  man  who  came  and  sat  under 
our  tree/'  Thus  our  two  maidens  lightened  both  their 
labors  and  our  slumbers^  but  by  a  less  poetic  process. 
While  they  busied  themselves  with  sweeping  the  house, 
and  washing  dishes  until  after  midnight,  they  kept  a  con- 
tinual whispering,  the  subject  of  which  was,  in  part,  the 
poor  sunburnt  men  who  came  to  sleep  under  their  curtains 
— ^but  could  not  do  it.  Considering  that  the  daughter  had 
a  sweetheart  in  the  house,  the  sibilant  disturbances  of  the 
girls  were  meekly  suiFered  until  they  naturally  whispered 
and  swept  their  v/ay  to  bed.  After  this  we  had  a  fair 
field,  and  did  our  best  to  improve  it.  The  room  being 
warm  and  smoky,  I  unpinned  the  curtain,  and  started  for 
fresh  air,  stealing  out  as  quietly  as  possible.  Treach- 
erous door  !  When  I  had  succeeded  in  hitting  upon  the 
wooden  latch,  up  it  came  with  a  jerk  and  a  clack  that 
went,  it  seemed  to  me,  to  the  ears  of  every  sleeper.  I 
waited  till  I  thought  the  effect  of  the  noise  had  passed 
away,  when  I  began  slowly  opening  the  door.  It 
squealed  like  a  bagpipe,  startling  the  dreamers  from 
their  pillows,  and  arousing  suspicions  of  a  rogue  creeping 
in,  while  it  was  only  the  restless  traveller  creeping  out. 
There  had  been  a  kitten  mewing  at  the  door  for  some 
time.  With  tail  erect,  she  whipped  in  between  my  feet. 
There  was  a  puppy  outside  also,  and  some  pigs  ;  each  in 


312  THE    SUPPER    AND    LODGING. 

its  way  promising  to  keep  up  till  daylight  the  serenade  of 
barking  and  grunting,  with  which,  from  an  earlier  hour, 
they  had  entertained  us.  It  was  starlight,  and  I  could  see 
my  ground,  as  I  thought.  I  determined  to  have  satisfaction 
by  setting  the  dog  upon  the  pigs,  and  then  flogging  the  dog. 
Kapping  one  over  the  head  with  a  bean-pole,  by  way  of 
prelude  to  rapping  the  other,  the  puppy  instantly  joined 
in  the  assault,  which,  but  for  an  unlucky, stubbing  of  my 
naked  toes,  would  have  proved  successful.  I  flung  down 
my  bean-pole  with  disgust,  and  beat,  instead  of  the 
young  rascal  of  a  dog,  an  inglorious  retreat.  For  the  rest 
of  the  night,  it  was  a  triumph  with  the  enemj^,  reinforced 
by  some  goslings  and  quacking  ducks.  If  there  was 
needed  any  more  rosin  on  the  bow  that  kept  sawing 
across  my  tightly  tuned  nerves,  two  or  three  fleas  sup- 
plied it  at  short  intervals.  The  bite  of  the  little  villains 
made  me  jump  like  sparks  of  fire.  There  was,  also, 
toward  the  chilly  morning  hours,  a  tide  in  our  aflairs,  a 
regular  ebb  and  flow  of  bed-clothes,  and  a  final  cataract 
of  them,  the  entire  sh^et  descending  into  some  abyss, 
from  which  w^e  never  succeeded  in  recovering  hardly  any 
thing  more  than  some  scanty  edges  and  corners  of  a 
blanket.  It  was  a  wonder  to  me  how  my  companion  in 
arms  could  sleep  as  he  did,  a  pleasure  he  declares  he  did 
not   enjoy  ;  but  in  his  restlessness  was  surprised  that  I 


THE    SUPPER    AND    LODGING. 


313 


could  slumber  on  so  soundly,  and  snore  through  so  many 
troubles — a  dulness  from  which,  of  course,  1  tried  stoutly 
to  clear  myself.  Thus,  as  frequently  happens,  each  imag- 
ined the  other  to  have  slept,  and  himself  to  have  been 
wakeful  all  night.  Undoubtedly,  both  waked  and  slum- 
bered, and  magnified  the  several  small  annoyances. 

When  we  were  ready  to  get  up,  which  was  disa- 
greeably early,  the  household  was  stirring.  But  a  peep 
through  the  crevice  of  the  curtains,  which  had  been  care- 
fully pinned  together  again  by  some  fingers  unknown, 
while  we  were  dreaming,  gave  the  needfiil  hint,  when  out 
they  went  again  among  the  ducks  and  goslings.  We 
sprang  out  of  bed,  and  dressed  with  all  reasonable  dis- 
patch— an  exercise  in  which  we  were  slightly  interrupted 
by  a  younger  puppy,  the  pestilent  animal  persisting,  in 
spite  of  a  kick  or  two,  in  springing  at  and  nibbling  our 
feet. 


14 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

SUNDAY    AT    DAVID    MUEDOCIFS.— THE   SCENERY   OP   BRAS   D'OR. 

Saturday,  July  23.  We  were  off  betimes,  and 
trundling  right  merrily  again  along  the  hilly  shores  of 
Bras  D'or,  a  much  more  expanded  sheet  of  water  than 
yesterday.  At  three  o'clock,  p.  m.,  we  arrived  at  David 
Murdoch's,  the  end  of  our  journey  with  Bearing's  convey- 
ances, and  where  we  remain  until  Monday  morning. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  walk  through  wood  and 
meadow,  picking  berries  by  the  way,  and  now  wait  for 
dinner,  which,  from  the  linen  on  the  table,  the  look  of  the 
landlady,  and  the  general  air  of  things,  promises  uncom- 
monly well.  From  this  frequent  mention  of  the  quality  of 
our  dinner,  it  may  be  thought  that  I  think  them  of  great 
importance.  I  do  think  them  of  very  great  importance  ; 
not  so  much  because  good  meals  are  necessary  and  the 
best  on  mere  sanatory  grounds,  but  because  they,  are  an 


THE    SCENERY    OF    BRAS   d'OR. 


315 


allowable  luxury,  especially  at  a  time  when  one  is  apt  to 
have  a  sharp  appetite  and  good  digestion.  A  man  is 
something  of  an  animal,  and  likes  excellent  eating  for 
the  comfort  of  it,  and  the  stomach's  sake,  and  that  like 
is  defensible  on  good  moral  grounds.  I  need  not  add, 
that  the  indulgence  of  it  should  have  upon  it  the  bit  and 
curb  of  moderation  ;  in  the  application  of  which  moral 
force  consists  temperance,  a  virtue  that  stands  not  in 
the  scantiness,  the  meanness,  or  the  entire  absence  of 
things  drank  and  eaten,  but  in  the  strong,  controlling 
will.  After  this  brief  apology  for  the  hungry  traveller's 
love  of  bountiful  dinners  well  and  neatly  served,  I  will 
return  to  the  sylvan  nook  where  ours,  for  to-day  and  to- 
morrow, are  to  be  cooked  and  eaten. 

We  are  at  the  foot  of  a  high,  broad  hill,  verdant  with 
meadows  and  pastures,  and  checkered  with  woods  and 
orchards,  around  the  lake-end  of  which  the  road  comes 
gracefully  winding  down  to  the  creek  and  the  bridge 
close  by.  The  expanse  of  water  lying  off  to  the  west,  as 
you  might  have  guessed,  is  named  St.  Peter's  Bay,  and 
the  buildings,  a  mile  or  more  distant  along  the  spruce 
and  pine-covered  shore,  is  St.  Peter's  itself,  a  village. 
The  accommodations  of  Mr.  Murdoch  are  ampler  than 
those  of  the  Widow  Kelly  ;  and  the  brown,  wooden  house 
stands  backed  into  the  thick  evergreen  forest,  the  front 


316  SUNDAY   AT    DAVID    MURDOCH'S. 

door  dressing  to  the  right  and  left,  with  its  square- 
toed  stone  step  in  line  with  the  trees  along  the  street. 
We  have  each  a  neat  room,  softened  under  foot  with 
a  rag  carpet,  and  dimmed  by  a  small  window  and 
its  clean  white  curtain.  The  narrow  feather-beds  are 
freshened  with  the  cleanest  linen.  We  have  seen  the 
last  of  our  driver,  who  returns  to-day  as  far  as  the 
Widow  Kelly's. 

With  one  horse  attached  to  the  hinder  end  of  the 
forward  wagon,  he  went  over  the  bridge  and  up  the  hill, 
"  an  hour  and  a  half  ago." 

Sunday,  July  24.  We  rest  according  to  the  com- 
mandment, and  have  religious  service  in  the  fapaily,  the 
members  of  which,  like  most  of  the  Scotch  of  Cape 
Breton,  are  Presbyterians.  In  the  afternoon,  we  saun- 
tered through  the  adjoining  woods  and  fields,  picking  a 
few  strawberries,  and  giving  to  ourselves  a  practical  illus- 
tration of  the  ease  with  which  people  slip  into  the  habit 
of  Sabbath-breaking,  who  live  in  out-of-the-way  places, 
distant  from  the  parish  church,  and  beyond  the  restraints 
of  a  well-ordered  community.  In  the  course  of  our  walk, 
we  came  out  upon  the  beach,  and  looked  at  the  beautiful 
evening  sky  across  the  water.  Bountiful  Providence  ! 
Where  hast  thou  not  sown  the  seeds  of  loveliness,  and 


SUNDAY    AT    DAVID    MURDOCH  S. 


317 


made  the  flowers  of  glory  bloom  ?  Celestial  colors  are 
also  beneath  the  foot.  The  swells  that  fretted,  and 
left  their  froth  along  the  sloping  sand,  were  freighted 
with  the  jelly-fish,  several  of  which  were  of  the  most 
exquisite  purple. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

OFF  FOR  THE  STRAIT  OF  CANSO.— ST.  PETER'S  AND  THE  COUNTRY.— 
DAVID  MURDOCH'S  HORSES,  AND  HIS  DRIVING.— ARRIVE  AT 
PLASTER  COVE. 

Monday,  July  25.  We  are  out  "  by  the  dawn's  early 
light,"  and  assist  in  getting  our  baggage  upon  the  coach, 
as  David  Murdoch  calls  his  two-horse  covered  wagon, 
which  is  to  carry  us  on  to  the  Strait  of  Can^o.  We  have 
breakfasted,  and  all  is  ready.  As  I  pen  these  notes,  here 
and  there  by  the  wayside,  I  keep  them  mainly  in  the 
present  tense.  David,  a  little  fair-complexioned,  sandy- 
whiskered  farmer,  innkeeper,  stage-proprietor,  and  driver, 
all  in  one,  is  exactly  the  man  for  his  vocation.  Quick  in 
his  motions,  intelligent  and  good-tempered,  he  is  entirely 
to  our  purpose.  He  starts  his  Cape  Bretons,  a  span  of 
light,  wiry  animals,  upon  a  canter,  in  our  opinion  an  in- 
discreet pace.  We  pass  St.  Peter's,  a  superlative  place — 
superlatively  minute,  the  smallest  city  in  the  world.     It 


ST.    PETER  S. 


319 


had,  for  several  years,  one  house,  but  has  of  late  been  in 
a  more  thriving  condition.  It  has  now  a  name  on  the 
map,  a  population  of  some  nine  or  ten  souls,  and  two 
houses,  a  large  public  work  in  the  shape  of  a  beach,  and 
a  little  shipping,  not  able  to  say  how  much  exactly,  as  it 
is  all  absent  but  a  skiff  and  a  bark  canoe,  and  the  wreck 
of  a  schooner,  in  a  poor  and  neglected  condition.  How 
long,  at  this  rate  of  progress,  it  will  take  for  St.  Peter's  to 
grow  out  of  existence,  is  a  fair  question  of  arithmetic, 
left  for  the  statist  of  the  island  to  cipher  out.  We 
pause  for  a  moment  only,  and  that  in  front  of  a  mer- 
cantile establishment,  if  one  may  guess  from  a  tin-foil- 
covered  paper  of  tobacco,  and  astride  of  it  a  couple  of 
pipes  in  the  window,  but  dash*  through  its  suburbs,  a 
pig-pen  and  a  hen-roost,  and  pass  the  gates  of  a  calf-pen 
and  a  potato-patch,  and  gain  the  open  country,  a  wild 
and  lonesome  tract,  half-wooded,  and  the  other  half 
weeds,  brush,  and  stumps  of  all  calibre  and  colors, 
from  rotten-red  and  brown  down  to  coal-black,  and  all 
torn  to  pieces,  and  tangled  into  one  briery  wilderness, 
just  fit  for  the  fires  that  occasionally  scour  through. 

We  were  mistaken  about  the  indiscretion  of  David,  in 
his  driving,  and  add  two  more  to  the  list  of  those  imperti- 
nent travellers  who  hastily  pass  judgment  upon  persons 
and  things  of  which  they  are  quite  ignorant.     David  is 


320        DAVID  Murdoch's  horses,  and  driving. 

the  Jehu  of  the  road,  and  his  steeds  are  chosen,  and  fitted 
to  their  master.  Like  locomotives,  they  work  with  the 
greater  ease  and  spirit  as  they  wax  hotter.  For  three 
hours  they  trotted,  galloped,  ran,  as  if  something  more 
than  horse  was  in  them,  and  something  worse  than  man 
was  in  their  driver.  There  was  ;  as  we  knew  by  the  flame 
in  his  face  and  about  his  nostrils,  and  by  his  breath  that 
had  spirit  in  it.  Around  the  hills,  and  at  their  foot, 
over  bridges,  and  through  the  bushy  dales,  the  road 
described  many  a  Hogarth's  line  of  beauty,  and  many  a 
full-blooded  S.  In  whirling  through  these  graceful  sinu- 
osities, now  strongly  on  the  right  wheels,  then  heavily  on 
the  left,  flirting  the  dust  or  mud  into  the  air,  we  seemed 
to  swim  or  fly  on  the  oily  brim  of  peril.  Expostulation 
flashed  out  upon  the  lips  in  vain.  A  shake  of  the  head, 
and  a  knowing  smile,  sharpened  ofl"  by  the  crack  of  the 
whip,  restored  assurance,  and  fairly  straightened  all  things 
out.  But  all  went  well,  and  passengers  as  well  as  driver 
became  rash  and  brave,  and  foolishly  came  to  like  and 
applaud  what  at  first  they  were  disposed  to  protest 
against. 

A  change  of  horses  has  enabled  David  to  persist  in 
this  extraordinary  driving,  which  brings  us  to  Plaster 
Cove  at  noon,  where  we  part  with  both  the  mercurial 
little    Scotchman,   and    Cape    Breton.      Thus   have   we 


ARRIVE  AT  PLASTER  COVE. 


321 


coasted,  and  crossed  this  British  Island,  in  which,  with 
all  that  is  repulsive  and  desolate,  nature  has  done  much, 
especially  in  the  picturesque,  and  where  agriculture  and 
commerce  have  large  fields  for  improvement.  To  the 
tourist  that  loves  nature,  and  who,  for  the  manifold 
beauties  by  hill  and  shore,  by  woods  and  waters,  is  happy 
to  make  small  sacrifices  of  personal  comfort,  I  would 
commend  Cape  Breton.  Your  fashionable,  whose  main 
object  is  company,  dress,  and  frivolous  pleasure  with  the 
gay,  and  whose  only  tolerable  stopping-place  is  the  grand 
hotel,  had  better  content  himself  with  reading  of  this 
Island. 


14* 


CHAPTEK  LXI. 

ADIEU  TO  DAVID  AND  CAPE  BKETON.— THE  STEAIT  OF  CANSO.-OUR 
NOVA  SCOTIA  COACH.— ST.  GEORGE'S  BAY,  AND  THE  EIDE  INTO 
ANTIGONISH. 

Plaster  Cove,  a  small  village,  and  our  dining-place,  is 
at  the  main  point  of  departure  for  Nova  Scotia  on  the 
Strait  of  Canso,  a  river  to  all  appearance,  and  not  unlike 
the  Niagara,  pouring  its  deep,  green  tides  back  and  forth 
through  its  rocky  channel,  overlooked  by  cliffs  and  high- 
lands. Directly  opposite,  the  hills  rise  into  quite  a 
mountain,  thickly  wooded,  down  the  sides  of  which  is  a 
broad  clearing  for  the  telegraphic  wire  connecting  with 
the  Atlantic  cable.  At  first  a  very  high  tower  of  timber 
was  erected  on  this,  the  Cape  Breton  side,  in  order  to 
carry  the  wire  above  the  highest  mast,  but  it  was  soon 
abandoned  and  left  to  fall  into  ruin.  The  wire  is  now 
submerged,  and  enters  the  water  in  the  form  of  a  sub- 
stantial iron  rope  strong  enough  for  the  anchor  of  a  man- 
of-war. 


THE    STRAIT    OF    CANSO. 


323 


Two  o'clock,  p.  M.,  we  crossed  the  strait  in  a  small  sail- 
boat, and  encountered  quite  a  disagreeable  sea,  enough  so 
to  give  us  a  few  dashes  of  salt  water,  and  frighten  the 
women  that  were  in  company.  We  have  a  two-horse 
post-coach,  of  queer  shape  and  uncomfortable  dimensions, 
being  short  and  narrow  in  the  body,  but  tall  enough  to 
serve  for  a  canopy  at  the  head  of  a  procession.  One  could 
easily  spread  his  umbrella  overhead,  and  find  some  incon- 
venience in  disposing  of  it  closed  down  below.  To  Anti- 
gonish,  the  town  for  which  we  start  in  this — I  am  at  a  loss 
to  determine  whether  antique,  or  an  anticipation  of  the 
future — carriage,  it  is  thirty- six  miles,  and  not  greatly 
different  from  as  many  miles  lately  passed  over,  if  I  may 
guess  from  what  I  can  see  for  a  mile  ahead.  Our  fellow- 
sufferers  in  this  strait  jacket  of  a  carriage  are  Scotchmen, 
and  think  in  Gaelic  before  they  speak,  I  imagine,  as  have 
many  of  them  that  we  have  met.  They  are  much 
amused  at  the  humour  of  the  painter,  of  whose  vocation 
and  standing  in  the  world  they  have  not  the  remotest 
notion. 

"  St.  George,  he  was  for  England, 
St.  Denis  was  for  France ; 
Sing,  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense," 


is  the  refrain  of  Master  John  Grubb,  of  Christ  Church, 
Oxford,  his  ballad,  rehearsed  at  the  aniiivergary  feast  of 


324      ST.    GEORGE'S    BAY,    AND    RIDE    TO    ANTIGONISH. 

St.  George's  club,  on  St.  George's  Day,  the  23d  of  April. 
And  now  for  the  reason  that  I  have  been  humming  this 
classic  nonsense,  or  rather  that  I  should  have  thought  of  it : 
To  the  north  of  us  is  a  blue  expanse,  dotted  and  bordered 
by  inlandSj  headlands,  and  the  warm  blue  heights  of  Capo 
Breton.  It  is  a  kind  of  azure  reticule,  or  pocket  of  the 
Gulf,  and  was  early  christened,  by  whom  I  cannot  tell, 
St.  George's  Bay.  This  is  the  second  Bay  in  honor  of  the 
martyr  of  Nicomedia,  the  patron  Saint  of  England,  to 
repeat  a  popish*  fancy,  that  we  have  encountered  within 
a  few  days.  And  truly,  could  the  old  religious  hero  revisit 
these  earthly  scenes,  he  would  own  that  they  had  given 
his  name  to  a  very  fine  extent  of  water,  whose  purple 
hills  to  the  northeast  stand  at  the  opening  of  the  Strait 
of  Canso.  Due  north,  a  vessel  would  touch,  in  a  few 
hours'  sail,  the  eastern  cape  of  Prince  Edward's  Island, 
the  garden  of  all  the  Gulf,  another  region  for  the  summer 
traveller. 

These  landscapes  of  island,  sky,  and  water  are  softly 
beautiful  in  the  afternoon  and  sunset  lights,  but  scarcely 
picturesque,  and  never  grand.  The  country  is  dull  and 
wearisome,  gently  diversified  with  hill  and  dale,  wood- 
lands and  farms,  in  no  very  high  state  of  culture,  and 
thinly  populated.  There  is  some  advantage,  however, 
resulting  from  this  dulness  of  scenery  :    it  drives  us  to 


ST.  GEORGE'S- BAY,    AND    RIDE   TO    ANTIGONISH.      325 


ourselves  for  entertainraent.  A  merrier  time  I  do  not 
remember  than  that  lately  passed  on  the  driver's  seat. 
The  theme  was  scarecrows — a  peculiar  walk  of  art,  in 
which  the  painter,  during  a  recent  stay  in  a  remote  part 
of  the  country,  became  sufficiently  adept  to  frighten,  not 
only  the  little  creatures  that  pulled  up  the  corn,  but 
even  the  larger  ones  that  planted  it.  To  such  perfection 
did  he  finally  carry  old  clothes  and  straw,  that,  like  the 
statue  of  Pygmalion,  his  images  became  indued  with  life, 
and  ended  with  running  after  the  astonished  rustics  of 
the  neighborhood.  We  ride  into  Antigonish,  a  thriving 
village,  with  pretty  white  houses  and  spreading  shade- 
trees,  at  dusk,  and  alight  at  a  comfortable  tavern,  where 
we  sup  on  salmon,  and  rest  until  after  midnight. 


CHAPTEK   LXII.      - 

NEW    GLASGOW.— THE    EIDE    TO    TRUEO.— THE     RAILWAY    EIDE    TO 
h  HALIFAX.— PARTING   WITH   THE    PAINTER. 

Tuesday,  July  26.  New  Glasgow.  We  halt  here 
for  breakfast,  after  a  sociable  and  merry  ride  of  several 
hours  from  Antigonish,  where,  after  a  refreshing  sleep,  we 
were  favored  by  a  change  of  coaches,  and  the  pleasant 
company  of  an  officer  of  the  English  army.  Here  is  a 
broad  and  fertile  vale  with  a  pretty  river  and  town  ;  all 
reminding  us  of  New  England.  Across  the  river  are 
coal-mines,  a  railroad,  and  ther  oar  of  cars,  merely  coal- 
cars,  however.  Tide-water  is  close  by,  setting  in  from 
the  Strait  of  Northumberland,  the  lengthy  water  lying 
between  the  mainland  and  Prince  Edward's  Island.  We 
are  all  ready  for  our  ride  to  Truro,  on  Mines  Bay,  or  a 
spur  of  it,  an  eastern  reach  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  and 
distant  forty  miles,  where  we  take  the  cars  for  Halifax, 


THE   RAILWAY    KIDE   TO    HALIFAX. 


327 


or  all  the  world.  Those  wonderful  cars !  Why,  at 
Truro,  I  shall  begin  to  feel  at  home,  a  point  more  remote 
than  Europe,  in  the  day  of  only  sails  and  horse-power. 

The  ride  is  cheering,  as  we  take  it  on  the  coach-top 
in  the  breezy,  bright  day.  Broad  farms,  with  barns  and 
dwellings,  grass  and  grain  and  orchards,  cattle  and  bleat- 
ing sheep  spread  out  upon  the  hills,  and  stretch  along  the 
valleys.  The  plain  of  Truro  has  many  of  the  features  of 
a  populous  and  well-cultivated  county.  Its  groves  and 
trees  and  wide  meadows,  waiting  for  the  mowef,  form  a 
pretty  and  extended  landscape.  The  town  itself,  reached 
at  three  o'clock,  with  its  central  square  and  grass  and 
shades,  is  too  much  like  a  village  of  New  England  to  need 
further  mention.  While  at  dinner,  the  whistle  of  the 
locomotive  indicated  the  direction  of  the  station,  a  wel- 
come call,  which  we  obeyed  with  rather  more  than  ordi- 
nary alacrity.  The  ride  to  Halifax,  which  occupied  from 
four  o'clock  until  dusk,  was  by  no  means  at  Yankee 
speed,  and  took  us  through  a  thinly  inhabited  country, 
somewhat  broken,  and  interspersed  with  woodls  and 
waters — a  region  that  makes  no  very  definite  or  lasting 
impression,  and  yet  one  that  the  traveller  looks  out  upon 
with  some  pleasure.  The  last  few  miles  along  the  banks 
of  the  river  flowing  into  Halifax  Bay  was  a  lovely  valley 
ride.     Bounded  hills  and  bluffs  green  and  bowery,  and 


328  PARTING   WITH    THE    PAINTER. 

handsome  residences  looking  out  between  pretty  groves 
and  down  grassy  lawns,  never  appeared  more  attractive. 
Had  we  been  going  the  other  way,  perhaps  they  would 
not  have  seemed  deserving  of  more  than  a  passing  look. 
In  the  weary  hours,  and  along  the  torrid  portions  of  the 
path  of  life,  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  remember  the  quiet, 
refreshing  scenery  of  that  river,  and  wish  myself  among 
its  graceful  and  placid  beauties.  From  the  noisy  station 
we  trundled  in  an  'omnibus  through  the  narrow  streets  of 
an  old-fashioned,  hill-side  city,  crowned  with  a  fortress 
looking  off  south  upon  a  bay  and  the  distant  ocean,  and 
alighted  at  a  hotel  of  stories  and  many  windows,  where 
we  heard  a  gong,  instrument  of  Pandemonium,  and  took 
tea  with  the  relish  of  medicine,  and  talked  over  the  con- 
clusion of  our  journey.  As  haste  was  more  requisite  on 
my  part,  I  resolved  to  post  across  the  province  to  Wind- 
sor, that  night,  and  leave  the  painter  to  wend  his  way 
homeward  at  his  leisure. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

COACH  EIDE  AT  NIGHT   FEOM   HALIFAX  TO  WINDSOR.— THE   PEINCE 
EDWARD'S  MAN,  AND  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  NEWFOUNDLAND. 


Immersed  in  fog,  and  sliut  up  in  a  small  coach, 
three  of  us^  a  Prince  Edward's  man  and  a  gentleman 
from  Newfoundland,  rode  at  a  round  trot,  with  but  two 
or  three  brief  intermissions,  from  ten  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing until  six  next  morning.  The  country,  I  conclude — if 
a  man  may  have  any  conclusions,  who  rides  with  his  eyes 
fast  shut,  and  sleeps  and  nods — is  a  succession  of  hills 
and  dales.  From  the  bridges,  over  which  we  rumbled, 
and  from  the  crowing  of  the  cocks  at  midnight  and  at 
dawn,  I  argue  that  there  were  farms  and  streams.  My 
companions  were  agreeable.  Being  partners  in  the  en- 
terprise, at  the  cost  of  twenty- two  dollars  and  a  half  for 
an  eight  hours'  drive,  we  had  fellow-feelings  on  all  things 
in  general,  and  upon  the  expensiveness  of  night  travel- 


330  THE   PRINCE    EDWARD'S    MAN. 

ling  in  Nova  Scotia  in  particular.  The  Prince  Edward's 
man,  a  tradesman,  was  on  his  first  visit  to  the  States, 
in  fact  to  the  great  world,  and  was  a  modest,  thoughtful 
person,  who  talked  as  men  of  merely  home  experience 
are  apt  to  talk,  saying  nothing  to  object  to,  nothing  to 
startle,  and  some  little  to  remember  concerning  the 
climate,  the  society,  and  products  of  his  native  isle.  The 
gentleman  from  Newfoundland  had  seen  the  world  to 
his  soul's  content,  and  now  was  a  most  passionate  lover 
of  wild  nature.  He  had  dined  with  nobility  and  gentry, 
and  could  talk  of  them  and  of  cities,  from  the  end  of  his 
tongue  ;  but  of  the  pleasures  of  the  sportsman  in  British 
America,  out  of  his  very  heart.  A  more  genial  com- 
panion the  lonely  traveller  could  not  easily  light  upon. 
I  had  seen  him  before,  but  forgot  to  mention  it.  It  was 
at  Murdoch's,  on  the  last  Sunday,  which  I  was  sorry  to 
recollect  of  him.  He  drove  up  about  noon,  in  wood- 
man's dress  partly  ;  washed,  dined,  and  departed  in  great 
haste  for  Pictou,  in  order  to  reach  Halifax  in  time  for 
the  very  steamer  that  we  were  hoping  to  catch.  With 
all  his  speed  he  missed  it  as  well  as  we.  Hinc  illa3 
lachrymee.  In  his  conversation  you  heard  the  crack  of 
the  rifle,  and  the  roar  of  the  forest  and  the  ocean.  JIc 
was  often  reeling  in  the  largest  salmon  and  the  finest 
trout,  and  bringing  down  with  a  crash  in  the  brushwood 


THE   GENTLEMAN    FKOM    NEWFOUNDLAND. 


331 


I 


the  fattest  of  all  bucks.  The  light  of  his  nut-brown 
pipe,  a  costly  article,  flashing  faintly  on  his  well-marked 
face,  reminded  me  of  the  red  blaze  of  camp-fires  in  the 
woods,  on  the  banks  of  mountain  brooks,  and  the  shores 
of  solitary  lakes.  From  one  of  a  nature  so  companion- 
able you  part,  on  the  road,  after  no  longer  than  a  day's 
acquaintance,  with  genuine  regret.  He  was  a  character 
for  the  novelist,  with  a  head  and  countenance  both  for 
painter  and  sculptor. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

WINDSOR —THE  AVON  AND  THE  TIDE.— THE  STEAMER  FOR  ST.  JOHN'S, 
NEW  BRUNSWICK.— MINES  BASIN.— COAST  SCENERY.— THE  SCENE 
OF  EVANGELINE.— PARSBORO.— THE  BAY  OF  FUNDY.— NOVxi  SCOTIA 
AND  NEW  BRUNSWICK  SHORES.— ST.  JOHNS.— THE  MAINE  COAST, 
AND  GRAND  MANAN. 

Wednesday,  July  27.  Windsor,  N.  S.  Soon  after 
our  arrival,  I  walked  down  to  the  Avon,  an  arm  of  Mines 
Bay,  itself  an  expanded  inlet  of  the  great  Bay  of  Fundy, 
to  view  the  wonderful  tide.  It  was  not  coming  in,  as  I 
had  hoped,  but  quite  out,  leaving  miles  of  black  river- 
bottom  entirely  bare,  with  only  a  small  stream  coursing 
through  in  a  serpentine  manner.  A  line  of  blue  water 
was  visible  on  the  northern  horizon.  After  an  absence 
of  an  hour  or  so,  I  loitered  back,  when,- to  my  surprise, 
there  was  a  river  like  the  Hudson  at  Catskill,  running  up 
with  a  powerful  current.  The  high  wharf,  upon  which, 
but  a  short  time  before,  I  had  stood  and  surveyed  the 
black,  unsightly  fields  of  mud,  was  now  up  to  its  middle 


I 


.  MINES    BASIN.  333 

in  the  turbid  and  whirliDg  stream,  and  very  nearly  in, 
the  steamer  from  St.  Johns,  N.  B. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  more  I  was  on  board,  and 
waiting  for  the  turn  of  the  tide,  upon  which,  of  necessity, 
the  boat  takes  her  departure.  I  had  missed,  after  all, 
seeing  the  first  approach  of  the  tidal  wave,  and  had  to 
content  myself  with  what  I  have  described,  and  with  a 
short  walk  in  the  town,  of  late  esteeming  itself  note- 
worthy on  account  of  being  the  birthplace  of  General 
Williams,  the  hero  of  Kars,  of  whose  fine  personal  ap- 
pearance I  have  spoken. 

We  are  now  at  the  opening  of  the  Avon  into  Mines 
Bay  or  Basin,  as  they  call  this  small  sea,  and  look  upon 
scenes  of  which  Longfellow  speaks  in  the  first  pages  of 
his  Evangeline.  It  is  simply  a  pleasant-looking  farming 
country,  checkered  with  fields  of  green,  now  of  a  yellow 
tint  and  then  of  a  blue.  Shores  of  reddish  rocks  and 
sand  make  a  pretty  foreground  line  along  the  west,  and 
rise  to  the  picturesque  as  they  wind  away  northward. 
Headlands  of  gray  and  red  rocks  in  slopes  and  precipices 
stand  out  in  bold  relief  crowned  with  underwood  and 
loftier  trees.  The  clouds  are  clearing  away  before  the 
breeze,  and  letting  us  have  a  sparkling  sea,  a  fine  blue 
sky,  and  landscapes  dappled  with  light  and  shadow. 

Parsboro,  a  village  on  the  north  shore  of  the  Basin, 


334  COAST    SCENERY. 

enjoys  more  than  its  share  of  broad,  gravelly  beach,  over- 
hung with  clifted  and  woody  bluffs.  One  fresh  from  the 
dead  walls  of  a  great  city  would  be  delighted  with  the 
sylvan  shores  of  Parsboro.  The  beach,  with  all  its 
breadth,  a  mii^cle  of  pebbly  beauty,  slants  steeply  to  the 
surf,  which  is  now  rolling  up  in  curling  clouds  of  green 
and  white.  Here  we  turn  westward  into  the  great  bay 
itself,  going  with  a  tide  that  rushes  like  a  mighty  river 
toward  a  cataract,  whirling,  boiling,  breaking  in  half 
moons  of  crispy  foam.  Behind  us  is  the  blue  reach  of 
Chignecto  Bay,  the  northern  of  the  two  long  and  winding 
horns  of  the  main  body  of  water,  up  which  it  would  be 
play  for  a  fortnight  to  hunt  romantic  scenery,  and  wit- 
ness the  "  bore,"  that  most  brilliant  of  all  tidal  displays. 

Here  is  a  broad  sea,  moving  with  strange  velocity  for 
a  sea.  The  prospect  to  the  south  is  singularly  fine. 
Nova  Scotia,  sloping  from  the  far-off  sky  gently  down  to 
the  shores,  its  fields  and  villages  and  country  dwellings 
gleaming  in  the  warm  noon-day,  or  darkening  in  the 
shadow  of  a  transient  cloud — a  contrast  to  the  northern, 
New  Brunswick  coast,  iron-bound  and  covered  with  dark 
forests.  Drops  from  a  coming  shower  are  wasting  their 
sweet  freshness  upon  the  briny  deep,  an  agreeable  discord 
in  the  common  music  of  the  day,  and  chime  in,  among 
pleasant  incidents,  with  the  talk  of  the  Prince  Edward's 


THE   MAINE   COAST.  335 

man,  and  the  sparkling  conversation  of  the  Newfoundland 
gentleman.  "And  so  sail  we"  into  the  harbor  of  St. 
Johns,  the  last  of  the  waters  of  this  divine  apostle,  in 
time  for  supper  and  a  pleasant  ramble  about  the  city. 
You  might  call  it  the  city  of  hills. 

Thursday,  July  28,  1859.  St.  Johns,  K  B.  This 
is  my  last  date,  and  I  write  it  out  in  full,  in  the  light  of 
a  fine  morning,  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer  for  Portland. 
The  coast  of  Maine,  truly  picturesque  as  it  is,  with  its 
rocky  points,  lake-like  bays,  and  islands  bristling  in  their 
dark  evergreens  like  porcupines,  and  particularly  Mount 
Desert  Island  and  Frenchman's  Bay,  is  the  mildest  form 
of  Newfoundland  scenery  as  you  see  it  on  the  Atlantic 
side,  with  an  additional  dressing  of  forest  and  vegetation, 
sparsely  studded  with  towns  and  habitations. 

Speaking  of  Mount  Desert  Island,  recalls  Cole  to 
memory,  who  was,  I  believe,  the  first  landscape  painter 
of  our  country  that  visited  that  picturesque  region.  I 
remember  with  what  enthusiasm  he  spoke  of  the  coast 
scenery — the  fine  surf  upon  Sand  Beach — the  play  of 
the  surge  in  the  caverns  of  Great  Head — the  ^gean 
beauty  of  Frenchman's  Bay — the  forests,  and  the  wild, 
rugged  mountains,  from  the  tops  of  which  he  could  count 
a  multitude  of  sails  upon  the  blue  ocean,  and  follow  the 


336  GRAND   MAN  AN. 

rocky  shores  and  sparkling  breakers  for  many  and  many 
a  mile.  Familiar  to  me  as  all  that  has  long  since  be- 
come, I  shall  not  pass  it  to-day  without  emotion. 

Grand  Manan,  a  favorite  summer  haunt  of  the 
painter,  is  the  very  throne  of  the  bold  and  romantic. 
The  high,  precipitous  shores,  but  for  the  woods  which 
beautify  them,  are  quite  in  the  style  of  Labrador.  I  look 
upon  its  grand  old  cliffs  with  double  interest  from  the 
fact  that  he  has  made  me  familiar  with  its  people  and 
scenery.  As  it  recedes  from  my  view,  and  becomes  a  dot 
in  the  boundless  waters,  I  will  put  the  period  to  this 
record. 


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